


The Perfect Match

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [6]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-20
Updated: 2007-08-20
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Bridget develops an unhealthy obsession with other peoples' happiness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly fluff. Hey, if Helen Fielding can be inspired by Ms. Austen…
> 
> I don't typically do 'sequels' to previous works but I had grown rather fond of some previous characters I'd invented… I don't think you'll be totally lost if you haven't read "In Sickness and…" as well as "The Scandal", but I think it will probably help.
> 
> Thanks to my roommate J. for her wonderful beta services, and as always to [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[**just_dreamsome**](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/) for being such a good plotbunny breeder, sounding board and friend. ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: Those things that don't belong to Helen Fielding belong solely to me.

The idea occurred about three days into her honeymoon.

The wedding was a time to bring together family and so many friends, old and new, and in realising how lucky and happy she was to have what she had, she knew she had to try to share in that happiness by finding them some of their own. She didn't dare tell him though, because he'd think she was out of her mind.

Unfortunately, he had gotten so good at reading her that he figured it out on his own.

"Something's distracting you, Bridget," he said, "and I bet I know what it is."

He'd ceased brushing his fingers over her bare back and shoulders to announce this to her.

"Oh?" she asked, turning over to look at him. The innocent tone did not fool him for a moment; that much was obvious on his face.

"You're thinking of pairing off your single friends."

Denying it was futile, but she tried anyway. "Mark. Why would I be thinking of them when you're doing such lovely things to me?"

"That's a very good question. Care to answer?"

The raised eyebrow and smirk told her she was sunk.

"I just want them to be as happy as I am," she offered.

"I know you do," he said, resuming his caress. "But this is our time, and I want you to myself. Tell the single friends to bugger off out of your head for now."

She laughed; he then helped to truly banish them.

………

The idea reared its head again immediately after their return. She was still in that post-honeymoon bubble of bliss when she got the call to go to Café Rouge for a summit meeting.

"You can bring Mark if you want; you know he's welcome," said Jude.

When she asked, he demurred.

"I always feel a little…"

"'A little' what?"

"Well, it's a bunch of women, and me."

"Tom is not a woman."

"For all intents and purposes, in this scenario, he kind of is," he said with a small smile. "Go on with your friends. I'll somehow manage in your absence."

Ignoring his sarcastic tone, she kissed him before heading out to meet her three friends. After two weeks in his constant presence, it felt somehow wrong to be parted from him.

Maybe, she thought, if her friends had _partners_ …

………

"I have good news," he announced to her over dinner Sunday evening.

"Oh?"

"Mmm," he said as he swallowed a mouthful of red wine. "We're going to have a guest this week."

So soon after honeymooning? How did he think this was good news? And he hadn't even asked—

He laughed. "Don't look like that. I didn't ask because I didn't think you'd mind if Hugh stayed during—"

"Hugh!" She thought of her husband's Cambridge mate, the one she'd gotten to know fairly well during a week's stay in the country about a year previously (the less she dwelled on the reason _why_ they were there a full week, the better), and she smiled. It had been good seeing him at the wedding, and it pleased her that they'd be seeing him again. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I just did," he said smugly, bringing a forkful of chicken to his mouth.

"When does he get here?"

"Actually, he's due to show up tonight."

She pursed her lips. "It's a good thing I like him. And _you_."

………

It would be strange, being in the city for the span of the conference. It had been a long time since he'd spent any significant time in London, and in truth he kind of missed the thrill of it. It would also be good to see his mate again, and his girlf—

_No_ , he reminded himself. _Wife_. He smirked to think of Mark being married once more after such insistence by the man that he would never walk down the aisle again… that alone had made her remarkable in his eyes.

It wasn't as if he hadn't gotten to know her before the wedding day, but his interactions with her were chiefly while she was terribly ill with a tropical disease. He had indeed liked her very much, liked the effect she had on Mark, liked that she clearly loved him and not his stature and money. However he hoped during the course of his stay that he could get to know her better as a friend in her own right.

Before he knew it, his car was slipping through the streets of London, and he glanced down to the map he'd printed out from the internet. Almost there.

There was enough room to park beside Mark's BMW— _damn gorgeous place, must have cost a fortune_ , he thought—and he saw figures moving behind the drapes in the front room.

As he scaled the front steps, the door swung open, and he saw Mark there, grinning broadly. "Hugh, old man," he said. "You made it."

"Did you get a chance to—" Hugh began worriedly. He had found out about the conference sort of last minute, so late that he'd been unable to book a hotel suite.

"It's fine," Mark said in a low voice. "She's fine."

Just then a blur of blonde caught the corner of his eye, and he felt himself being hugged within an inch of his life.

"It's good to see you too, Bridget," he said, smiling.

………

"Did you have supper yet?" Bridget asked of Hugh.

"I picked up some fast food on my way out of Stratford," said Hugh, dropping his bags on the floor in the foyer. "But I'd love a beer."

Bridget turned back to Mark, a dawning comprehension (and a knowing smirk) on her face. "Ahhhh, _that_ explains the Guinness on the kitchen counter."

Mark could only offer a guilty smile in return.

"Shall I take your things upstairs?" offered Bridget.

"Don't be silly," Hugh said, then smiled impishly. "Mark will do it."

Mark laughed, then swept down to pick up Hugh's bags. "Come on. I'll show you where your room is."

He led his friend upstairs, indicating the first door, right at the top of the stairs. "The loo's right there," added Mark, pointing to the door across the hall from it, then they entered the guest room. "Hope it will suffice."

"Curiously white in here," said Hugh with a chuckle, looking around the respectably-sized room, "but yes, I think it'll do just fine."

Mark smiled. Since moving in the previous spring, Bridget had added her own little splashes of personality to the master bedroom and the front sitting room, but had not yet had the chance to tackle the two guest bedrooms. In the course of moving and planning the wedding, they had not been a huge priority, and so had retained the rather Spartan, stoic, pre-Bridget décor.

"It goes without saying that you should make yourself at home. In fact—" Mark dug into his pocket. "I had an extra key made up for you so that you could come and go at your leisure. We both work during the day and it would be a pity for you to have to mold your schedule around us."

"You are too generous," said Hugh, taking the key and adding it to his key fob.

"There's an alarm code too but we rarely set it these days," added Mark. "The code's 1-9-8-7."

He watched Hugh grin; it was the year they'd met. Hugh then glanced back over his shoulder in a furtive way, then said, "I hardly feel the need to ask, because you're looking very well, but: how's married life treating you?"

He felt a broad grin slide unbidden across his face. "I am quite content, even if life with Bridget is usually far from that."

"As I said: hardly needed to ask." He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Have I mentioned how happy I am for you?"

"Several hundred times, most of those at the wedding," Mark replied.

"So it's really not a problem having me here?" Hugh asked.

"I'll hear no more of that," admonished Mark. "Get settled in and come down two floors to the kitchen. I picked up some curry-flavoured crisps for you as well."

Hugh raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Can I come live with you forever?"

………

The beer really should have been a giveaway, and if she'd seen the crisps sooner she would have surely known something was up.

After setting down the carrier bag of bachelor-type food, Bridget went over to the kitchen-level sitting room, taking a glance around to make sure the place was still tolerably clean. Despite the fact that this was the room they spent a good deal of their relaxing time in—cuddling, watching movies, and the occasional something-more—it only needed a little bit of straightening up. There was a housekeeper that came by twice a week, much to Bridget's relief; she barely had been able to keep her little flat clean when she'd lived there and she shuddered to think what this palatial home would look like if the housecleaning was left up to her. The housekeeper, however, wasn't due back until tomorrow.

Ugh. Tomorrow.

She slumped down onto the sofa as thoughts of the next day raced through her head: going back to work for the first time since the honeymoon. She dreaded the thought of the pile of work that would be waiting for her on her desk, even though Shazzer had assured her it wasn't so big and horrible as all that. She looked on the bright side though: at least she didn't have to face that apprentice to Satan himself, Richard Finch, now that she was working at Shazzer's paper as a features writer.

She heard footsteps on the stairs and her head popped up to see who was heading down. From the cut of the trousers she knew it to be Mark, and she settled back down onto the sofa. She smiled, vowing not to think of tomorrow just yet, not when the night was still young.

"Fancy a glass of wine?" he called to her, glancing to her as he popped the lids off of two bottles of Guinness.

"Actually, I think I'll have a beer," she said decidedly.

Mark stopped what he was doing and looked to her as if she'd just told him she was running away to join a convent. "Well. You marry someone, you think you know them," he said, carrying on with a sly grin, picking up a third bottle and removing the cap. "I don't think I've ever seen you drink a beer before."

"There's a first time for everything, I suppose." In truth she far preferred sweeter wines to hops-laden bitter ales and lagers, which usually reminded her in starkly painful ways of the cheap stuff she and her friends had gotten plastered on while at uni. It felt like a beer sort of evening though, and she wanted to be good company to their guest as well as build camaraderie with him via like drinks.

"Yes, I suppose there is." The smile remained on his face as Hugh descended tentatively into the kitchen. Mark walked over to greet him and handed him a bottle. He swiftly took a swig.

"Oh, does that hit the spot. Thanks," said Hugh. Mark brushed past him and handed her a bottle as well. She brought it to her lips and, fighting the urge to hold her breath, she took a deep swallow.

Spotting Bridget in the other room, he grinned. "Hello again."

"Hello again," she echoed, once she trusted herself to speak again; much better than the beer she'd been so intimate with in the past, but a lot stronger tasting than her usual chardonnay. "Hope the room's okay." She moved to the side, sitting cross-legged, and Mark sat beside her. Automatically he placed his hand on her left thigh, which she covered with her own hand.

"Durr," Hugh said, taking the chair to the side of the sofa. The grin did not leave his face. "This place is gorgeous."

"Thanks. Did you have a good drive?" piped up Bridget, perching her bottle on her right knee, holding it by the neck.

"Very good," said Hugh, nodding, "not too much in the way of traffic, though I had the radio on and Mark, did you hear about—"

Hugh launched into the latest football news, analysing it from every angle, and animatedly Mark offered his own opinion and counter-analysis, absently petting her knee. Before long Bridget's eyes glazed over; she caught a word here and there but mostly felt as if she were listening to a conversation in Mandarin. She brought the bottle to her mouth again, the bitter draught sliding more easily down her throat with every sip.

She wished very much that Shaz or Jude were there, or even Tom. At least with one of her own kind she could counteract the football gibberish with who was shagging whom or even celebrity gossip—

Slowly her gaze drifted and lit on Hugh, his face open and laughing as he and Mark were good-naturedly bantering about this latest sports disagreement. He was a handsome fellow, his greying brownish hair curling around the tops of his ears, his blue-grey eyes sparkling; he was certainly intelligent and had a razor-sharp sense of humour. Add to that fact that he had Mark's stamp of approval, had known him since university…

She felt the left side of her mouth slide into a wry grin. Why _not_ kill two birds with one stone?

"Uh oh, we're losing her," came Hugh's gentle voice, snapping her out of her thoughts.

She perked up, focusing on Mark. "Sorry. Guinness is going straight to my head."

"I told you she's cute when she's squiffy," said Mark in a confidential tone.

"That you did," said Hugh, grinning. He held up his bottle, then shook it, looking disappointed. "Always gone too quickly."

"If you'd like another—" offered Bridget.

"No, I make it a point to stick to one in the evening. Otherwise I go from buzzed to well on my way to pissed, and that's not pretty."

Mark laughed under his breath, clearly privy to some prior knowledge.

"Well," said Hugh in a very declaratory fashion as he rose from the chair, "the drive was very long and tiring and the conference starts at a rather ungodly hour, so I think I'll head back upstairs and go to sleep."

Mark went to stand as well but Hugh held up his hand.

"No, don't get up. I can find what I need."

"I guess I'll have to take your word for it," Mark replied with a grin, sinking back down next to Bridget. Hugh offered to take their empty bottles, which he deposited on the kitchen counter along with his own. As he headed back to the stairs leading up, Mark called after him, "Make yourself at home. Really."

Hugh paused. "You don't want me to do _that_. I'm a bachelor, for God's sake." With another grin, he headed upstairs.

Bridget remembered one of the comments Hugh had made shortly after they'd met—about how Mark had helped him survive his divorce—and suddenly became curious about the ex. How long ago had he been married? How much time had passed since the divorce? Was it too soon for him to be seriously interested in another woman?

She became aware of Mark's voice at the tail end of his query, and said, "Sorry, what?"

He merely chuckled. "I said you looked like you had something on your mind, and asked what it was."

She debated how much she wanted to say, because she knew that Mark would not approve of her romantic interference. "I was just wondering how long Hugh's been a bachelor. He's such a nice guy; it's a shame and a bit of a mystery as to why he doesn't have someone."

Mark rested against the back of the sofa. "Let me think. Hm. I think he divorced Louisa about six years ago, after a very short engagement and marriage. They were just… a bad match." A look of fleeting pain washed over Mark's face before he continued. "She tried to take him for half his assets, but I helped to establish that he had most of what he had before they wed."

"No wonder he felt he owed you so much." She sat back as well, resting her head on her folded elbow. "What was she like?"

"I didn't know her that well," he admitted. "None of us did, including Hugh. I think he liked the idea of being married, and she especially liked the idea of being married to a _doctor_. I don't think it lasted a year."

"Poor Hugh," sighed Bridget. "Was she pretty?" Mark simply looked at her for a moment with a trapped expression upon his face. She realised he thought maybe it was a loaded question, so she added with a grin, "I'm just curious. This is not a test."

He relaxed, smiling. "She was attractive, sure."

"What did she look like?"

"What? Why?"

"I'm just curious, like I said."

He gave her a sidelong glance. "Well. She was tall, taller than you are. If I recall correctly, reddish-brown hair that was… well, no longer than her shoulders at the time. Don't remember the colour of her eyes."

"Was she thin?"

"I don't really know," he said hesitantly. Her look in response must have been particularly fierce because he added, "Let's just say too thin for my tastes."

She chuckled. "Was she the type Hugh usually went for?"

He brought his brows together. "Why the interrogation?" Then he must have come to some conclusion; sometimes she really cursed his mental acuity. "Bridget. Whatever you're thinking? _No_."

She played innocent. "I'm not thinking anything!"

"Then why all the questions?" he asked, then added, playfully pointing a finger at her, "And don't say because you're curious."

"I _am_ curious!" she said indignantly. "You have the benefit of many years of friendship with him, and I only got to know him through doctor-type visits."

"So you want to get to know him by knowing the type of woman he fancies? No, that doesn't sound suspicious at _all_ ," he said, smirking.

She pouted, leaned away from him on the sofa, crossing her arms in front of herself. "I'm just trying to understand him. I am, after all, a child of _Cosmopolitan_ culture."

He considered her for a moment, then reached forward, took hold of her forearm, and pulled her to sit on his lap. "If you say so," he whispered into her ear as he cuddled her close.

"That's more like it," she said, smiling, closing her eyes, reveling in the embrace. _Everyone should be this happy_ , she thought not for the first time, and resolved to use the information she'd just gathered to the benefit of all.

………

The bed was comfortable, and he was beyond exhausted, but Hugh found he could not fall to sleep, instead merely staring up towards the ceiling in the dark room. He'd taken a quick, refreshing shower then had crawled into bed, the feel of the fine linen sheets like a caress against his bare skin.

He liked to tell himself he didn't believe in jealousy, as intellectually it was a useless state of mind, but when it came to Mark, he found himself feeling unwelcome twinges of envy. Mark was so obviously happy that if it had been anyone else it would have made Hugh nauseous. He was glad for Mark's current happiness though because the man had certainly had his share of pain and heartache.

It didn't mean he wouldn't like a little happiness of his own.

Not unexpectedly, his thoughts went to the newly married pair. He felt badly for impinging upon their hospitality so soon after returning home from their honeymoon, but when he'd mentioned he needed Mark's help to find a hotel to stay in, Mark had been so insistent he stay with them he could not help but agree.

He turned over, plumping up the pillow, and tried to will himself to sleep. He drifted off into a restless slumber not long afterwards amidst thoughts of previous warm embraces, deliberately pushing thoughts of the ultimate end of all of them out of his head.

………

Monday

The dreaded alarm, already.

Bridget's arm snaked out from under the sheet, flailing wildly to shut off the alarm clock, then dropping down limply. On the opposite side, she patted the bed beside her—empty of course, as Mark always rose before she did on a work day.

She raised her head up, saw the lone, steaming cup of coffee sitting perched on a coaster on the bureau. _Her_ steaming cup of coffee, which he knew better than to bring to her in bed on a weekday lest she never rise. It was Mark's way of motivating her to get up, and while the coffee did help, it was joining him as he groomed in the bathroom (usually before he dressed) that was the bigger motivator.

She rolled over, pushed back the sheets, and sat up, reaching to smooth her hair down. "Are you up?" called Mark from the bathroom.

"I'm up," she called back to him, standing and picking her coffee up, then sitting again.

He walked from the bathroom clad only in boxers, patting the remnants of shaving cream away off of his cheek with a fluffy white towel. "Up, up," he said with a grin, gesturing she should stand again.

"I know, I know," she said, punctuating her lack of motivation with a heavy sigh as she rose once more, taking a long sip. When it came to work days he was quite a taskmaster; she hadn't missed that a bit. "I don't want to go back to work."

He stopped on his way back to the bathroom to look at her. "And yet you keep going back when you don't really need to."

She pursed her lips. "I don't want to go back because I've spent the last two weeks with _your_ undivided attention."

He had the decency to look chagrined as he turned away again. "Will you go rap on Hugh's door, make sure he's awake?"

"Yes, Captain," she said with a grin.

She pulled her robe over her pyjamas and opened the door of the master bedroom only to find that Hugh had in fact arisen: he was in mid-stride on his way to the loo across the hall from his room. He was also as naked as a jaybird.

He was rubbing his eyes and therefore did not see Bridget. She quickly disappeared behind the bedroom door, turning the deepest shade of crimson she probably ever had. The quick glimpse she'd gotten was not unattractive; it had been obvious even while dressed that he had a decent body but she'd never have guessed he was so well-toned and muscular. It was more than she ever wanted or expected to see of him.

"Is he up?"

"Oh yes," Bridget said unsteadily. "He's up."

………

Mark emerged from the bathroom and headed for the closet when he noticed Bridget had not only been stunned into silence but saw the unmistakable stain of embarrassment on her skin, so instead changed course towards his wife. He asked, placing his hand on her upper arm, "Everything all right?"

She looked to him, looked like she might die right then of humiliation. "You… might want to find a spare robe for Hugh."

He regarded her quizzically when suddenly it clicked that Hugh was not fond of wearing pyjamas. A short little laugh erupted from him before he could stop it, and he took her in his arms.

"Laughter. I appreciate your support," she said sullenly.

"I'm sorry. If I had remembered his nocturnal habits I never would have asked _you_ to wake him." He pulled back. "I'll have a word with him."

"Don't mention I saw anything—please."

"Of course not," he said.

"Not that I saw anything," she added quickly.

"Of course you didn't," he said in a very placating manner, though couldn't imagine she'd have turned so thoroughly red if all she'd seen was a bit of bare arse. He kissed her then added, "Get ready for work or you'll be late on your first day back. I just know your other co-workers are going to be primed and ready to hear all about the honeymoon."

That seemed to brighten her mood and quickly returned her colour and demeanour back to normal. She smiled, then got up on her toes to kiss him again. "I will miss dragging you back into bed whenever the mood strikes," she said afterwards.

"Saturday is only five days away," he said, then patted her bottom. "Now go on."

She went into the loo; he dressed in his dark blue suit and slipped into his shoes. From the back of his closet he pulled out a terrycloth robe his mother had given him last Christmas but he had never worn as he was particularly fond of the dark brown chenille robe Bridget had once given him. It also had an embroidered cartoon Father Christmas face on the ridiculously useless left breast pocket.

He approached the guest bathroom and rapped twice on the door. It opened a sliver and he saw Hugh's half-shaved face peer out. Mark could not help but notice that he was in fact completely naked as evidenced by bare hip and leg.

He held up the robe and smirked. "I remembered your penchant for sleeping as you do and wanted to remind you there's a lady on the premises."

It was Hugh's turn to flush bright red. "Oh, God, I'm sorry." He took it. "I wasn't even thinking."

"It's all right. Some habits are hard to break."

Hugh took a closer look at the terry robe and laughed. "Let me guess. From your mother."

Mark laughed, nodding in the affirmative. "I have to get to court. You know where the kitchen is."

"Yes indeed," Hugh said. "Bridget going with you?"

"She's still getting ready in our bathroom. Will we see you for dinner?"

"Conference winds up today at five so… as long as you don't mind."

"Of course we don't mind, or I wouldn't have asked. Besides. Bridget really wants to get to know you better outside of a doctor-patient relationship."

Hugh blinked. "Does she?"

"Of course she does. She likes you, and to be honest, she doesn't care for most of my other friends."

Hugh brought his brows together.

Mark explained with a grin, "'Balding upper-middle-class twits' was I believe one of the phrases she used."

"Ahhhh," Hugh said with a laugh.

"I'll see you later," said Mark, departing for the lower floor.

………

Hugh hoped that taking the last of the coffee wouldn't get him booted out of the house, but it he had a desperate need for some that morning. He also found some bread with which to make toast, but could not locate the toaster, so instead simply put some orange marmalade on a couple of slices and ate them as an open-faced sandwich.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and he turned to see Bridget, who seemed surprised to see him, casting her gaze to the side. "Oh, I thought you'd be gone by now."

"Nice to see you too."

She smiled uncomfortably, still not meeting his eyes, which he found curious. "Sorry. Of course that's not what I meant. What are you eating?"

"Raw toast. I couldn't find the toaster."

She chuckled. "I've lived here since the spring and I still can't find things in this kitchen."

She didn't seem quite herself, and he inquired, "Everything okay?"

Finally she looked to him, but only briefly, then said, looking slightly pinker than usual, "Everything's fine. Just coming down for some yoghurt before I leave for work." She turned away to the refrigerator, digging into the shelf, then emerging with a small container. She smiled, waved, then headed back up the stairs. "See you later," she called back to him.

Now he was truly puzzled. That was a cold shoulder if ever he'd gotten one, and he wondered how on earth what Mark had said could be compatible with what had just transpired with Bridget.

In a moment of clarity he realised what must have precipitated Mark's presentation of the Christmas-themed robe to him, the words that Mark had spoken as he had done so, and felt mortified beyond belief.

He also resolved to wear the robe most faithfully whilst staying with them.

…

"Welcome back, Bridge." It was Shazzer, wearing a grin a mile wide, presenting her with a coffee drink in a paper cup.

"Thanks," she replied, accepting it and taking a long sip from the caramel-flavoured latte. She set her bag down, drawing out the yoghurt and then pulled a plastic spoon out of her desk drawer. It inevitably led to thoughts of Hugh and his unintentional flash of skin. She hoped she hadn't been too weird around him there in the kitchen.

"How's Mark?"

Still occupied with thoughts of the morning, she said disconnectedly, "I'm sure he's just as disappointed to be back as I am."

"I'm sure. I still can't believe you're married." Shaz elbowed her gently, drinking from her own latte. "Something wrong?"

"Oh… we have a houseguest," she offered feebly.

Shaz looked to her in disbelief. "Christ, already?"

Bridget nodded, bringing a spoon full of yoghurt to her mouth. "A friend of Mark's."

"Not too long-term, I hope. You need a post-honeymoon adjustment period."

"Just the week, I think." She sighed. "I don't really mind overly much. It's just… well, I guess in the mornings he has a tendency to wander around in the nude."

Shaz started to sputter on her own drink, and in an effort not to cough latte all over Bridget's desk she accidentally upset the pen cup there, sending pens and pencils scattering across the desk. "What?!" she managed.

"I got a bit of a show this morning, let's say," Bridget explained.

Shaz began to laugh. "Oh, Bridge. Why do these things never happen to me? So… was he worth seeing?"

"He certainly didn't burn my retinas out or anything, but still… I was so embarrassed. Thank God he didn't see me see him."

"All right. You're killing me. Who's staying with you? Was he at the wedding? Wasn't fat Nigel, was it?"

"Yes, he was at the wedding, and no, it was not Nigel. You remember Hugh? Mark's friend from Cambridge?"

Shaz's eyebrow raised and an impish grin curled up the side of her mouth. "Oh, _my_. I am _incredibly_ jealous."

"Funny you should say that," Bridget said conspiratorially. "How would you like to go out to dinner with him?"

"What?"

"He's such a nice guy, really funny, very smart and sweet… and yeah. A nice arse."

"How about…" Shaz asked, her eyes trailing down meaningfully before meeting Bridget's gaze again, the smirk still firmly in place.

Bridget cleared her throat, felt herself flush red. "From what I saw… quite respectable."

Shaz giggled, then asked, "But…?"

"What do you mean, 'but'?"

"Well, there must be a reason he's never been married, right?"

"He's divorced."

"Oooh. A ringing endorsement if ever I heard one."

"Hey. Mark was divorced when I met him, if you recall," Bridget teased. "Hugh's just gun-shy, I think. Mark tells me his ex-wife was a bit of a gold-digger. Plus he's a doctor and lives in the country, so I'd wager he doesn't have much of a social life. Come on. Say you'll think about it. He'd absolutely be worth it. Certainly a step up from the last one, that stupid Simon wanker."

Shaz pursed her lips, but then smiled. "Okay. I'm game if he is."

Bridget beamed a smile, resisting the urge to rub her hands together maniacally.

"Bridget! In my office, now," came the voice of her boss, the editor of the Arts & Lifestyles section, Jen Wolford. She swallowed hard. Great. Five minutes back and she was going to be sacked.

"On my way." She shared a nervous look with her friend and co-worker.

She emerged from the office thirty minutes later not only not sacked, but with rather surprisingly good news.

………

"You've been _what?_ "

"Offered a column. An advice column!"

Mark would never admit to anyone (least of all to Bridget herself) that the last thing she needed was to be encouraged to hand out yet more advice, but he saw how thrilled she was and could only smile broadly and embrace her. If she was happy, he was happy too.

"That's fantastic," he said. "I'm very proud of you."

He could feel her bouncing on her toes even in his arms, and he laughed, pulling away to kiss her briefly. "What shall we do about dinner? Chinese takeaway? I'm not in a mood to cook. Too tired."

"Sounds good to me."

They went together into the front sitting room and instead of going to the telephone, he joined her on the sofa, thumbing through the day's mail and handing Bridget her magazines.

"Are you going to order?"

He'd forgotten he hadn't told her about Hugh's plans. "Hugh said he'd be back for dinner—I'll wait until he gets back before I phone in our order."

"Oh," said Bridget, then added in a nonchalant tone, "Speaking of Hugh… I mentioned to Shazzer that he's here in town and…"

Mark turned to look at her; a feeling of foreboding invading his very core.

Bridget continued: "Well, she really liked him when she met him at the wedding. Do you think he'd like to go out with her?"

"Go out with who?" came a voice from the foyer.

Mark was frightened by the unholy glow that lit her eyes, and she bounced off of the sofa as Hugh entered the room. "Do you remember my friend Sharon, from the reception?"

"Probably. Remind me."

"Blonde hair, brown eyes… um, think she's taller than me."

"Curly hair?"

"Wavy, but yes."

Mark turned to see Hugh's thoughtful look. "I think I do remember her. Thin, rather attractive in her bridesmaid dress, I thought."

Bridget looked ever more eager. "So what do you think? Want to have dinner with her?"

Mark knew how terribly difficult it was to say no to Bridget, especially with her blue eyes wide and innocent like they were just now. He also knew that the difficulty extended to people who weren't actually married to her. "Sure. It will at the very least get me out of your hair."

"Great. Tomorrow night?"

Hugh reached into his pocket, drew out his mobile. "How about you give me her phone number and I'll call her directly?"

Oh, the level of smugness in her smile was almost too much to bear. "Sure."

Within moments Hugh had connected to Shazzer, and dinner was arranged for that very evening. "Well," said Hugh, closing his phone. "That's that, then. But before I go, I have something for you, Bridget."

"Me?"

"Yes. To thank you for being such a gracious newlywed hostess." He held up the little bag he'd brought in with him and handed to Bridget. Her eyes lit up as she pulled out a small container of very delicious looking chocolate truffles coated in powdered cocoa.

Mark watched as she looked up to his friend with a smile on her face. "You are very welcome." She then hugged him; if there had been any residual awkwardness after this morning's hallway debacle it had clearly disappeared.

"Off to make myself pretty," he jibed, then headed out of the room and up the stairs to the guest room.

"Looks like it's just you and me after all," she said, joining him again on the sofa.

"Bridget," he said, instantly recalling her desire to get her friends partners of their own. "What are you up to?"

She presented him with the patented innocent look yet again. "Why should I be up to anything? Shaz expresses interest, Hugh expresses interest, why shouldn't they give it a go?"

"I just seem to remember a certain conversation during our honeymoon wherein you were distracted by thoughts of playing matchmaker."

She lifted her chin. "If I am, it's for my new column. I intend to write about this."

"Do Sharon or Hugh realise this?"

"No… not yet. Would taint the results."

"Ah."

"So please don't say anything."

Mark drew his fingers across his lips in imitation of closing a zipper. "So. How about dinner?"

………

Hugh was panting for air and not for any worthwhile or fun reason.

It had been so long since he'd been on a date that he wasn't sure if it was normal to feel like he'd been completely trampled by a pack of wild horses at the end of the evening. He closed the door behind him, leaned up against it for a moment to recover himself before (he was sure of it) the inevitable discovery by Bridget, Mark or—heaven forfend—both of them together to ask him how the evening went, and he wasn't sure Mark would be able to keep a straight face as Hugh told bald-faced lies…

"I thought I heard someone come in."

Hugh opened his eyes. It was the lesser of the two evils, Mark, emerging from the back of the house. Judging from the papers in his hand his office must have been back there.

"Hey. You're up late."

"Finishing up some work before I head up to bed."

"Where's Bridget?" Hugh asked, hoping she hadn't heard him come in.

"Upstairs, writing in her diary, no doubt. Or fast asleep." He grinned. "How was your—"

Hugh held up a silencing finger. "Don't ask."

"Was it that bad?" Mark asked, his voice decidedly quieter.

"She seemed nice enough… but oh my _God_ is she opinionated, and, if I were to judge by this evening, doesn't actually _like_ men."

Mark chuckled. "That sounds like Sharon."

"I don't dislike the woman… but don't know how to tell Bridget. I'm afraid she'll take it personally."

"Why don't you leave it to me?" said Mark, clapping his friend on the shoulder before walking over to the foyer and inserting the papers into the attaché there.

Something akin to gratitude washed over Hugh. "Thanks."

………

The bedroom door swung open, startling Bridget back to alertness. Sitting in bed, illuminated by the bedside lamp and writing in her diary, she hadn't even realised she'd begun to drift off. She looked to the door—Mark, of course—and smiled, folding closed her diary and setting it along with the pen she'd been writing with on the nightstand.

"Darling," he said by way of greeting, "I thought you'd surely be asleep by now."

"I think I was until you came in."

"Sorry to disturb you."

"Hardly a disturbance." She scooted down to rest her head on the pillow. "I much prefer to wait for you, anyhow."

He flashed a smile to her as he began unbuttoning his shirt.

After visiting the loo and taking care of his nighttime routine, he slipped into bed beside her. As was his custom he settled into his pillow then drew her into his arms.

She wondered as she listened to the slow and steady beat of his heart if it would be too weird for him, with Hugh just down the hall, if she initiated a little romp before sleeping but recalled that Hugh was probably still on his date with Shazzer. If he wasn't though… Her head popped up; his eyes flew open at her sudden movement.

"What?" he asked.

"Did you see Hugh come in?"

He closed his eyes again. "Yes."

"And?"

"Bridget, as much as I have grown to like Sharon, it doesn't sound like she's the one for Hugh."

"Oh." She was unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice, and his eyes opened again, a decidedly softer look to them.

"I know you had high hopes they'd hit it off. I'm sorry."

She rested her head on his chest again. They had seemed like a good match. Ah well, there was always Jude… or the recently-separated Magda… or maybe even Janey, though she wasn't sure she wanted to subject Hugh to Janey's passive-aggressive ways…

Mark must have mistaken Bridget's silence for sadness instead of the contemplation that it was, because he started stroking her face and planting kisses into her hair. "He thought she was very nice. Just… not for him."

"Hmmm," replied Bridget, closing her eyes at his gentle touch.

"You're taking this well," he said after a few minutes, during which his fingers had traveled down to her neck and shoulders. "In fact, a bit too well."

"You're helping to ease my pain," she said, her voice low.

She felt his hand brush down along her arm and under the sheet to caress the small of her back. He whispered throatily into her ear, "It wouldn't be odd for you, would it, with Hugh just down the hall…?"

She laughed, then reared her head back to kiss him.

………

Tuesday

Upon arriving at work that next morning, Bridget swallowed hard as she approached the area of desks shared by herself and Shazzer.

"Have a good time last night?" asked Bridget.

"I had a great time…" she began brightly, then trailed off. "But I got the feeling he maybe didn't like me."

"What makes you say that?"

"He didn't try to kiss me when he brought me home. He _shook my hand_."

Inwardly wincing, Bridget pursed her lips. "I'm sorry."

Shaz shrugged then smiled. "It was a long shot anyway. Thanks."

Bridget smiled. "But you liked him though, right?"

"Yeah, that's the pisser of it. I did," Shazzer said. "You're right. I don't know why he's single." Her mouth formed an O. "Bridget, you don't think he's maybe… _gay_ , do you?"

It was something she hadn't considered, but she didn't think that was so. "If anyone would know, Tom and his finely-honed sense of gaydar would." Bridget pulled out her yoghurt, then commenced to eating. "This advice column I've been assigned to… I think I'm going to write one about dating."

"Says the Becoming-Rather-Smug Married," Shaz said playfully.

"It isn't as if I've gone amnesiac regarding past boyfriend horrors. Besides, it'll be about the difficulty of trying to find someone like Hugh a girlfriend."

Shaz rested her chin in the palm of her hand. "As long as you don't put my name down as Experiment One Gone Horribly Wrong? Sounds great."

Bridget debated whether or not to mention the column again. After all, Shaz had been working at the paper for years, and Bridget felt a little awkward swooping in and being assigned to a column already.

"Don't look at me like that," said Shazzer.

"Like what?"

"Like you're planning an escape route from my murderous revenge," she said. "I'm not jealous… well, not _that_ jealous anyway."

Not for the first time, Bridget pondered how well her friends knew her. Grinning lopsidedly in acknowledgement, she then said, "So. How do you feel about Jude being Experiment Two?"

………

It was a tough decision to make, and he had to make it by the week's end.

He ran his fingers over his chin, then looked at the telephone once more. Making the call meant committing to making a decision, and although it was Tuesday he wasn't ready to do so just yet. He took a few more steps, then turned to glare at it again.

Oh bloody hell.

He walked to the phone, picked up the reviled receiver, and punched in a number. Before too long a man's voice came on the line sounding a little bewildered to be on the receiving end of his call.

"Yes, hello Mark. Sorry to bother you while you're working."

………

Bridget was in the kitchen when she heard footsteps descend from the main floor. She smiled. "Welcome home," she called in a pleasant sing-song, not looking up from cutting up an apple. "How was your day?"

"It was lovely. Filled with boring lectures."

Bridget laughed, turning to see her husband's good friend.

"Mark home yet?"

"Nope. Want an apple?"

Hugh thought about it for a moment then smiled. "I think I will. Thanks."

Having mastered the location of the refrigerator, she reached into the vegetable bin and plucked out another one, then sliced into eighths, put it on a plate and presented it to Hugh. With a grateful nod of the head he took it, picked up a slice and bit into it.

The telephone rang at that moment. "Oooh, excuse me." She passed by Hugh and answered it.

"Darling, it's me." It was Mark. "I've been waylaid by some work issues. Don't wait for me for dinner. I'll pick something up for myself."

"All right."

Instead of saying his goodbyes and hanging up, there was a strange silence. "I have more bad news," he said at last.

"Don't sound so dismal," she teased.

"I'm serious. It's bad enough we have one houseguest the week after our honeymoon…"

" _What?_ " she exploded, causing Hugh to cough on an apple slice and stare at Bridget with alarm. "Please tell me you're joking."

"I'm not. I'm sorry. But I can hardly refuse family."

Visions of young cousin Simon or his fashion- and youth-obsessed aunt descending upon their home made her involuntarily shudder with horror. "For how long?"

"He's scheduled to return to New York on Monday."

"Uncle Nick? Are you talking about Uncle Nick?" Relief flooded through her and she laughed. "Why didn't you say so? Him I don't mind."

Now it was Mark's turn to laugh. "Are you saying there are members of my family you _do_ mind?"

"In a close-quarter living arrangement situation? Yes, I think I do."

"You don't have to be defensive. I would mind too. All right. I should go—the faster I finish the faster I can be home. I'll see you later, darling. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye." She replaced the handset. "Well, it's just you and me for dinner. We can try to cook, or we can go out."

Hugh appeared to think about it for three seconds before announcing he much preferred the latter option.

………

He shouldn't have been surprised by Bridget's choice for dinner locales. He _had_ been surprised when she suggest they walk, but it apparently was in relatively close proximity. They ended up on the doorstep of a small Greek restaurant that was, she explained while pointing upwards, across the street from her old flat. It was by no means a posh neighbourhood, but Hugh could tell by the expression on her face that she had fond memories of the flat. "I kind of miss it," she confessed. "Mark always preferred to go back there for our evenings in. He would always say he liked how cosy and homey it was."

"Did you sell it?"

He saw a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "He says he's going to list it with an estate agent, but never does. I don't think he can bear to part with it, either."

Hugh grinned.

After they were seated by the window and had ordered their meals (she shocked him yet again by going for the eggplant moussaka, but she explained that in her opinion it was their best dish, and she had tried just about everything on the menu over the course of the years), and after they conversed lightly on a number of random topics, her voice dropped down to a bare whisper. He leaned in to listen as she explained that two birthdays ago there was an encounter between Mark and Daniel Cleaver that had come to blows. "It was the first time I'd spent any appreciable time with Mark after many false starts. I was really starting to like him, too… but then Daniel showed up trying to worm his way back into my life."

"Mark explained a little bit about how Daniel had lied to you about who had slept with whom," Hugh said. "Very Daniel."

She nodded. "So it ended up in a fight in the street that made its way into this restaurant and culminated in the two of them launching through this very window." She pointed to her left.

No wonder she was speaking in hushed tones—it was probably not something she wanted to remind the wait staff or management about. "Oh my God," he said. "It's a miracle one of them wasn't seriously injured, glass in an eye or through the carotid…."

"I know." She paused as the waiter brought the bottle of wine they'd ordered and poured it for them. "Mark told me much later that he'd paid for this replacement, but he's still too ashamed to come back here."

Hugh picked up the glass and took a sip. "So is that the night you got together?"

He'd expected her to carry on in a happy tone, but instead she shook her head, lowering her lashes almost demurely. "No. I'm afraid that being under the wrong impression about who had slept with whom, I said some unkind things and Mark took his rather battered self and left. I didn't see him again for more than a month and a half, after I'd learned the truth about Daniel."

"And then the happy ending?" Hugh prompted, hoping she'd smile again.

It worked. "Well, after an embarrassing outburst at his parents' Ruby Wedding, and a couple of flights over the Atlantic Ocean… yes. The happy ending. Or rather, middle."

"Middle?"

"Mmm. Yes," she said. "After that we had the pointless break up, near-disaster in the form of Daniel Cleaver, my stint in a Thai prison, _then_ the happy ending."

"Don't forget the illness afterwards," Hugh said jokingly.

"I'm never likely to forget that," she shuddered, then added, "although it did mean I got to meet _you_ , so for that at least I'm glad."

He grinned.

As they waited for their meals to arrive, Hugh pondered what she could have meant by the mention of Daniel again, and as the plates were set before them, he asked.

"Oh… well," she said, flushing pink. "I came very close to allowing myself to be seduced by that lying bastard while we were both there on assignment in Thailand. But all I could think of was Mark, how much I still loved him. So I couldn't go through with it."

He smiled. "You _must_ love Mark to have resisted the master."

Bridget burst into a little laugh, placing her fingers on the stem of her wine glass but instead of picking it up she simply let them linger a bit. "Yeah. Best choice I ever made. I couldn't have faced Mark if I'd slept with Daniel again—especially since the wanker had been lying to me the whole time he told me he'd reformed."

"I'm shocked," Hugh said, holding his hand to his chest in a mock heart attack. She giggled. He then took his wine glass in hand and raised it. "To wise choices."

She lifted hers as well, touched it to his glass and added, "And to good company."

"Hear, hear." They both sipped.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they ate their meals, interrupted only by Hugh asking almost as their plates were clear, "So by 'Uncle Nick' I'm presuming you were referring to Mark's cranky old uncle?"

She smiled. "Yes. Do you know him? I mean, besides from the wedding?"

"Oh yes. Sometimes I'd spend breaks with Mark at his parents' house instead of making the long drive home. His uncle was a regular feature, at least he was before he moved to New York."

"What do you think of him, aside from being cranky?"

Hugh chuckled. "What I would expect of an uncle from a family like his. Judgmental and overprotective of his nephew. I was just a middle-class kid from Manchester and I'm sure at first he thought I was out for something. I think he eventually warmed to me once he realised I wasn't."

She laughed again. "Oh, yes. Sounds spot on."

As they finished their dinner Bridget insisted on baklava and coffee before going home, grasping the back of his hand fervently from across the table. When he agreed, she beamed. "You won't be sorry. It's the _best_."

She hadn't been exaggerating. The combination of phyllo, honey, chopped nuts and butter had never tasted so good, and the continued conversation made him laugh. He was happier than he had been in an age.

As they walked back to the house, Hugh still had a smile on his face. It had been a very good evening indeed—he'd gotten to talk one on one with her, gotten to know her a little better, as he'd wanted to do for so long. They were more alike than he had imagined; there were references to childhood pop culture that they shared—that he had never really been able to share with Mark because, well, he was _Mark_ —to their taste in wine and their appreciation of popular cinema and music. They continued their pleasant chatting all the way back to Holland Park Road. He even grinned patiently (and hesitantly agreed) when she mentioned she had another friend she thought he should meet, the head of investments at Brightlings.

As Bridget turned the key in the door, he said, "That was really delicious. Thanks for taking me there."

"Thank _you_ for paying! You really didn't have to."

"Come on. Of course I was going to pay. After all, I'm a last-minute—" He broke off.

It was only then that he was gripped with a horrible realisation: It was the best date he'd been on in years.

_Oh God._

"Bridget? Is that you?" called a voice from the lower decks almost simultaneous to Hugh's sudden stop. Hugh felt his stomach drop to his feet, inexplicable guilt for his previous thought.

"It's me," she affirmed. He then saw Mark's head appear as he ascended from the kitchen. "And Hugh. Obviously."

"Have fun?" he asked, taking her into his arms and kissing her. "Where'd you go?"

"Kalispera."

Their voices faded to a dull roar. All he could see what their happy embrace, their smiles, _her_ smile. It occurred to him that she had a really lovely smile. And pretty eyes.

She was looking at him, talking. "—wasn't it?"

Hugh gave a bit of a start; she was speaking to him. "I'm sorry, what?"

She laughed. "Wine go to your head? I said the food was good, wasn't it?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes, very good. Um. I—need to prep for tomorrow's talks. I'm giving one, if you can believe it."

"I'm sure you'll do great. What's it about?"

"Um. Treatment options for water-borne tropical diseases."

Mark chuckled. He had gotten the connection to Bridget's previous illness instantly, evidenced by his comment, "You're practically an expert at that." Hugh wondered if subconsciously he hadn't chosen the subject deliberately.

"At what?" asked Bridget.

Mark leaned in and whispered into her ear.

"Oh," she said. Then she smiled again. "Well, if you need a subject or a test case for leptospirosis, you've got it."

"I'll keep that in mind. 'Night." With a final grin—one that felt far too forced for his liking—he scaled the stairs for the second floor.

There was a talk to prepare for, but he wasn't sure he would have a modicum of focus that evening. Not when he could think of nothing but betraying, if even in his own mind, one of his best mates.

………

Mark furrowed his brow as he watched Hugh disappear from sight on the stairs. In a lowered tone he asked, "Did he really have a good time? He seemed a little strange there."

Bridget shrugged. "We had a great time! I don't know what's come over him all of a sudden. Very weird. Maybe he's just tired."

"Maybe." He drew her close again, planted a kiss on the top of her head, soon becoming lost in thought. Had he done something to offend his friend? Was there something Bridget wasn't telling him—had there been an disagreement? Or—

"What did you end up having for dinner?" she asked him, breaking him out of his reverie.

"Are you sure Hugh was all right tonight?"

She pulled back and looked to him with surprise. "Mark, I told you he was fine. We had a lot of fun. I think he probably just realised how late it is and is worried about getting ready for his talk. Or maybe he started to think about what a disaster it had been with Shaz when I told him I thought he might like to take out Jude… I dunno." She squeezed him tight for a moment before stepping away. "You never answered me about dinner."

"Picked up a takeaway order of shepherd's pie," he said, though his mind had already wandered elsewhere. He had never known Hugh to behave so antisocially or mercurially, if Bridget's tale of their fantastic time was to be believed. He doubted very much that Hugh was nervous about his lecture—he came alive in front of groups of people and secretly Mark had always thought he had perhaps missed his calling as a stage actor. Alternately, while his date with Sharon had been abysmal, Hugh had appeared to feel worse about possibly offending Bridget than about the date itself.

"So you're through with work for the evening?" she asked, hovering at the top of the stairs that let down to the kitchen. He nodded. "I was thinking of watching some telly, if you're interested."

He smiled, forgetting his concerns for a moment. "I'm always interested when it comes to spending time with you."

She lifted her chin, grinning happily. "I'll meet you down there. I'll even have a Guinness ready if you like."

"Sure."

He watched her descend. Could it somehow have been about Bridget herself?


	2. Chapter 2

A soft knock startled Hugh from his thoughts. He'd been tossing and turning, unable to sleep, for hours, his mind turning over his suddenly conscious, unwanted attraction to Mark's wife. He even chanted that phrase— _Mark's wife_ —over and over again as a sort of counter-charm. It would not do at all to have such thoughts about her.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, softly called out, "Yes, come in."

He thought it would be Mark—Mark, who could read him like a book and surely guessed the reason for his stilted demeanour—but the dim light from the hall haloing shoulder-length blonde hair indicated otherwise.

"I couldn't sleep," she said softly, closing the door behind her. Even in the dark of the room he could see her eyes trained upon him as she stepped closer then sat on the edge of the bed near him. "I'm sorry about earlier. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

He cleared his throat. "It's all right. I had a really great time."

"So did I." She looked to where her hands were folded in her lap. "A really great time," she echoed somberly before looking to him again. "I felt a real connection with you."

"I've been looking forward to getting to know you better, for—"

_Mark's sake_ , he finished in thought only, because as her fingertips brushed along his bare chest, alarm bells sounded in his head and he was rendered mute.

"I only wish now that I had met you first," she said quietly before bending over him and kissing him forcefully.

He was powerless to push her away even though he knew he should.

Not breaking from him, she climbed under the sheet beside him. The loose knot holding her robe closed came open easily at his urging, and against his better judgment, his hands were soon playing along the soft skin of her abdomen, hips and bottom. She moaned softly in his ear as she pressed herself against him, hooking a leg around his. He turned so that she was beneath him on the double bed, and he paused to gaze upon her beautiful face. "Please. _Please_ ," she said plaintively, arching beneath him, her eyes closed, her breath ragged. "Don't stop."

Covering her mouth with his own again, he realised he couldn't very well stop now even if he wanted to. He wanted her far too much.

She was every bit as enthusiastic and responsive as he knew she would be. How much he'd longed to be with a woman like her, unpretentious, lovely, sexy…

It all came crashing down with the sound of his alarm. He gasped as his eyes opened. Patting the bed to either side of him, he was both saddened and relieved that he was actually alone. As much as he had been enjoying himself, it would not have done to actually betray Mark in the same way Cleaver had.

There was no way he could face either of them this morning after that particularly vivid dream. He rose immediately even though it was much too early, taking a shower with water that was far too cool. He dressed, gathered up his things, and left for the conference. He would find breakfast elsewhere.

………

Strangely, Hugh was already gone the next morning when they emerged from the master bedroom to head out to their respective work places, as evidenced by the wide-open guest bedroom door and rumpled sheets. Bridget recalled Mark's concerns of the night before—how he'd thought Hugh was acting strangely—but then figured he was up due to nerves about his presentation, and she smiled. He had nothing to worry about—he was probably an ace at giving a lively, interesting presentation.

Over lunch with Shaz and Jude, Bridget remembered the potential date.

Jude actually turned pink. "He wants to meet _me_?"

"You've already met him, I think, at the wedding," said Bridget. "I told him a little about you, reminding him what you look like and what you do, and he seemed interested." She realised as she said it she was exaggerating a little, but it was for a good cause.

"He's really nice," encouraged Shaz. "You should totally go for it."

Jude gave the two of them a suspicious look. "If you say so." And then she grinned.

Plans were then made for dinner that evening then a movie for the four of them—Jude, Hugh, Mark and herself; she didn't have the time to double check with Mark or Hugh but she was sure they would not object. Still, she called and left Mark voice mail to give him a heads-up.

………

It was a rare occasion that Mark arrived home from work before Bridget did, but he soon discovered that he was not the first back to the house.

"Hugh!" he said with a grin. "How did your talk go today?"

Hugh's expression was unclassifiable for a split second—concerning Mark, considering his behaviour the previous evening—but then he smiled and said, "Went fine. Needn't have worried. Probably could have done it in… my sleep." Inexplicably his smile faded.

"Mate," Mark said in a confidential tone. "Is something wrong?"

"No, really, I'm okay," he said unconvincingly.

"Bridget said you had a nice time last night, but Bridget has been known to a.) varnish the truth a bit and b.) say things before she has a chance to think about them. You can tell me if you had a disagreement or if she said something to offend you. Really."

Hugh looked very thoughtful for a moment before he answered. "Mark, Bridget did nothing wrong. It was me. But I'm fine now; don't worry. The conference talk… had me a little crazy. It's okay."

They stood there, gazes locked, for a few moments more before they both grinned.

"Okay," Mark repeated. "By the way, Bridget informs me we're going out to dinner then a movie."

"Have a great time," he said; Mark was suddenly convinced Hugh was anything but fine. He wondered maybe if his night out with Bridget had reminded him he had no partner of his own. Had there been someone until recently he was feeling down about? Was his happiness with Bridget reminding him of that person?

"No, you're going too. And so is Jude. Bridget thought it might be less intimidating than a one-on-one blind date."

"Ah." He grinned, looking more like himself. "Well, I'll go freshen up." He took the stairs two at a time.

As Mark thumbed through the day's mail, he heard the key in the door behind him. As expected it was Bridget, who beamed with a smile. He walked to her and embraced her, exhaling slowly.

"What's the sigh for?" she asked.

"Just thanking my lucky stars, is all," he said as he pulled back to smile at her. "I told Hugh about tonight. He's gone upstairs to get ready."

"Oh, good idea. It's nearing six. We should do the same."

He followed her up the stairs. "Bridget," he asked once they were behind the closed door of their bedroom, "last night, did Hugh mention anything about recently splitting with anyone?"

She appeared to think a moment, then shook her head.

"Did Shaz mention anything similar?"

"No—Mark, what are all these questions about?"

"Hugh's been acting a little strangely since last night and I'm trying to pin down why. I think he's maybe feeling his bachelorhood a little too acutely—and he would especially feel that way if he had been recently seeing someone."

"Did you _ask_ him if anything was wrong?"

"Yes," Mark replied.

"And what did he say?"

"That he was worried about his talk."

"You see? I was right. Stop fretting."

"But Bridget, Hugh _loves_ talking at these conferences. I've never seen him act like this just in preparation to give a talk. I think something else is wrong."

"Isn't that usually my job, to find problems where there are none?" she teased. "Change your clothes, something more suitable for casual dining. Then we can go."

He sighed. He wasn't going to convince her that what he felt so strongly wasn't just a product of his imagination. It was true that it was normally her job to worry about emotional matters, but he was the one that had known Hugh for twenty years, and knew that this behaviour was very unlike him.

It pained him to think in such cliché terms, but the most he could do is be there for his friend.

………

Pleased as punch.

Jude was smiling and laughing at Hugh's stories (which Bridget was all too happy to coax out of him; she thought Mark was going to reach over and clamp a hand over Hugh's mouth when he began the Captain story). For his part, Hugh seemed as sparklingly charming as ever, polar opposite to his funk of the night before. Jude was also shining and radiant, relating stories from her longtime friendship with Bridget. The embarrassment for past pissed-as-a-fart drunkenness was well worth it, if only for the smirks Mark gave her from across the table. Bridget was sure that she looked beyond smug.

It was over dessert that Mark, looking momentarily quizzical, reached into his pocket and pulled out his vibrating phone, then excused himself to take a call. He returned momentarily looking sheepish. "Bridget, I'm afraid I'll have to skip the movie."

"What? Why?"

"Because my uncle is coming to London tonight and he's left his key in New York."

She looked to Jude, who looked exceedingly happy at the news. Jude assuredly knew there was no way Bridget was going to tag along to the movie and be a third wheel. Jude was right. "I'll go with you, Mark. You two can go to the movie, don't need a chaperone, right?"

Hugh looked to Jude, then back to Bridget. "I think we'll somehow manage."

"Great."

Mark flagged down the waiter, insisted on paying for the meal. "After all, it was my wife's idea that we all go out together," he said, shooting a playful look to Bridget.

"Thanks, mate," said Hugh, grinning from ear to ear.

"Jude, you can bring him back to the house, right?"

She nodded. "See you later."

………

For as talkative as she'd been at the restaurant, she was very quiet on the ride home. Mark looked over to see her gazing out at the London night, a slightly dreamy quality to her eyes. He smiled, returning his attention forward. If he'd needed proof that there had been no irresolvable argument with Hugh the night before, he'd gotten it.

"You've been looking very self-satisfied," he said as they pulled into the drive. Even though the drive was at least two hours long, he was relieved that they had beaten his uncle to the front door. He didn't want to imagine the lecture he'd get if they hadn't.

She turned to him, smiling like mad. "I think that went _very_ well."

He nodded. "I think everyone had a very good evening. Myself included."

………

When Jude suggested they relocate to the restaurant's lounge and have drinks and dessert instead of continuing on to the movie, he'd agreed, because he had been having a fantastic time and movies are not conducive to continued conversation. Jude excused herself to use the ladies', and dessert and coffee arrived in her absence.

"So," he said, raising his Irish coffee to his lips as she took her seat again. He found he suddenly had nothing interesting to say.

"So," she echoed.

"This is a pretty good restaurant. I haven't been here before, have you?" he said.

Her expression suddenly darkened a little. "Yes, several times with… my ex, Richard." She turned her eyes to her chocolate dessert. "Several times." Her voice lowered again. "And the last time I found him flirting with a skinny thing half his age." He swore she was going to start crying.

"Oh."

After staring into her coffee for a few moments, she began plaintively, "Why do men do that, Hugh? I give him the best years of my thirties and he treats me like utter rubbish, taking me for granted, sponging off of me…" She trailed off, bringing a too-large forkful of the profitterol to her mouth. "Why on earth would I still have feelings for him?" she concluded with a full mouth before she swallowed.

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

They finished the dessert in silence before he suggested they call it a night. "I have this conference I have to go to early in the morning," he explained.

She agreed. She didn't seem to realise that the movie would have kept them out much later, or if she did, she didn't say anything. Hugh paid for the nightcap.

The ride back to Mark's house was a bit on the awkward side. It wasn't until he was standing on the walk in front of the Holland Park house, waving politely to Jude as she drove away, that he realised the truth of the evening:

It had been Bridget that had made the evening such a smashing success. It was her conversation, her gentle social coaxing, that had put him at such ease. It was Bridget's interactions with Jude and not actually Jude that he had been so smitten with.

_Dammit_ , he thought as he scaled the steps up to the house, turning his key in the door, but it was already unlocked. As he entered the house, he saw Bridget standing there looking very confused.

"I thought you were Uncle Nick. What happened to the movie?"

He walked further into the house, passing by her. "We decided to have dessert instead," he began, choosing his words carefully. "Then, well, I realised I was kind of knackered and she brought me home."

He couldn't quite read the expression on her face—Confusion? Disappointment? Sadness?—but she was thankfully distracted from the conversation as he heard footsteps on the hardwood floor behind him. The way her face lit up as she bounded over to Mark's uncle, threw her arms around him and hugged him put little daggers through his heart. To see Uncle Nick, Mark's irascible, hard-to-win-over uncle, smiling and returning her generous hug, somehow added to his misery.

………

Nick pulled away from his niece-in-law, recovering his composure though it did delight him to see her again. "You're looking very well, Bridget. Hello Mark," he added, addressing his nephew. "And… my goodness, Hugh, it's been years. I don't even remember seeing you at the reception."

"I couldn't really stay long. I was on call." Hugh smiled to him. "Nice to see you again, sir."

He looked back to Mark. "I had no idea I was adding to your company."

"Don't think anything of it. The house is certainly large enough to accommodate two guests," Mark said with a chuckle. "Have you had supper?"

"Had a bite before I left Grafton Underwood."

"I'll take your bags upstairs. Go on and find something to eat."

"Thank you, Mark." As Mark ascended the stairs with Nick's things, Nick descended the stairs to the kitchen.

"So how has your stay been?" came a voice behind him.

Nick was surprised that Hugh was on his heels.

"Well. It's Grafton Underwood, and I'm used to New York. It was definitely time to come back to London."

Hugh chuckled.

"So what brings _you_ here? Don't you live in London?" Nick continued.

"Actually, my practice is in Stratford, but I was invited to a medical conference at the last minute. Mark was good enough to offer me a room when I couldn't get one at the hotel."

"Ah." Nick moved towards the refrigerator, then decided to have a sandwich. "Feeling hungry?"

"No, we just came back from dinner, actually, but thank you." Hugh yawned, or rather (in Nick's eyes) made a great show of yawning. "It's been a long day—my presentation at the conference was today. I think I'm going to head upstairs for bed."

"Which room are you in?" Nick asked. It would not have done to walk in on the boy as he slept.

"The one at the left, across from the loo."

Nick watched him ascend, called "goodnight" after him.

………

Standing alone in the foyer, Bridget could tell that something disastrous must have happened after they'd left the restaurant. The blatant lie about why he'd come home early and the way Hugh had chosen to accompany Nick to the kitchen rather than stay behind with Bridget… it all spelled doom. It depressed her to no end—not just that the date had gone so sour so quickly, but that Hugh was now apparently upset with Bridget for trying again.

At that moment, Hugh reappeared. He offered a quiet goodnight as he walked by and up the stairs, not even looking to her.

He was definitely upset with her. She sighed.

Bridget realised she'd been off in her own little world for some moments when she felt Mark's hand on her waist, his soft voice in her ear. "What's the matter?"

"You must have noticed Hugh came home very early."

"He did leave long before we did this morning. I'm sure it wasn't a reflection on the evening. He was clearly having a good time with Jude."

"Mark, he didn't talk to me, barely looked to me when he came in. I'm certain he blames me for setting him up on another rotten date."

She felt Mark's arms slip around her, settled into the warmth of his familiar embrace and scent. "I'm sure he was just disappointed that he had to end the night early," he said. She then felt tender kisses pressed into her hair, and she wrapped her own arms tightly around his waist.

"Nice to see the magic hasn't died," came an amused voice from behind her. She couldn't help but chuckle.

"Good night, Uncle Nick," she said to him as he ascended the staircase, sandwich in hand.

Mark pulled back far enough to look at her. "Seems that everyone's retiring for the night. Perhaps they're onto something."

Bridget could not help but smile. It was far too difficult to wallow in negative thought bogs with his hands strong on the small of her back, his warm brown eyes gazing upon her. "Good plan."

………

Thursday

"I think I'll see if I can work from home today," said Bridget. Mark almost didn't hear her, as her muffled voice emanated from deep within the folds of the bed sheets.

"That isn't necessary," called Mark from the bathroom, wondering if it was just another excuse to sleep a little longer. "Nick doesn't need a babysitter."

"I know, but he's going back to New York next week and I'll miss him terribly."

"Plus," he added with a grin, "you tend to procrastinate when you work from home."

She did not reply immediately, and when she did it was from behind him in the bathroom, leaning on the doorjamb with her arms folded across her chest. "Thank you for your support," she said drolly.

He turned and went to her to plant a kiss on her lips. "You can do whatever you like, darling. Just call your boss first." He glanced to his wristwatch. "Damn. I must go."

"Have a good day," she said with a smile as she headed for her mobile.

………

"Jen speaking," came the voice on the other end of the connection.

"It's Bridget," she said. "I have an unexpected family obligation—" _Not exactly a lie_ , she thought. "—so I'd like to work from home today and tomorrow."

Her boss sounded distracted. "Yes, yes, that's fine, so long as you send me your draft sometime today and I have a final draft by five tomorrow. It's going in Monday's paper."

Bridget nodded confidently to herself even as her heart sunk into her feet. She'd begun but there was so much more to do. Her tale of Hugh's dating woes would not be her first piece—she was hoping for a little success first in that area—but more of a general piece on the difficulty of finding a nice, normal partner in the urban jungle of London… and how she knew it was possible since she'd managed to find one.

"Absolutely. I'll be in touch."

"I look forward to it."

Her boss disconnected the call and Bridget sat on the bed, mobile in hand, considering her options. Nick was probably already awake, having breakfast and doing the morning paper's crossword; Hugh was very likely also already gone to his conference. She grinned. Having no firm deadline for the day she thought there'd be no harm in sleeping for a little while longer.

………

It had been a split-second decision after a horrid night's sleep and after considering the mind-numbingly boring topic (and the droning voice of the lecturer) to skip the morning's session at the conference. The couple of extra hours sleep Hugh had managed to catch were deep and restful, and he felt much better for it.

He rose, slipped into the hideous robe, and padded to the guest bathroom to wash up when he noticed that the door to the master bedroom was ajar. Overcome with curiosity to see the one room upstairs he hadn't looked into yet—as it seemed as always that Mark liked to keep the door closed even when the room wasn't occupied—he drifted down the hallway instead and peered through the opening.

He immediately regretted it.

There in the middle of the broad expanse of bed like an angel in repose was Bridget herself, her blonde hair splayed upon the pillow, her face peaceful, her chest rising and falling evenly. The bare curve of shoulder, throat and collarbone visible above the expanse of linen made it all too obvious that she was not clothed. As if he'd been pulled back by the jerk of a lead he retreated, feeling the heat of embarrassment flood his skin even as he revisited the scene in his own mind.

He turned around to head for his original destination only to see Mark's uncle mounting the top of the stairs and fixing him with a curious look. "Good morning, Hugh."

Hugh's smile, he was certain, was as false as they come. "Good morning, sir. Was just heading for the shower." He rushed past the older man and into the sanctuary of the loo.

………

_A very strange encounter, indeed_ , thought Nick as he pondered what he'd just seen: Mark's friend looking as red as a fresh beet, clearly walking not from his own room but from the other end of the hallway where Mark and Bridget's bedroom was. That bedroom's door was opened, and since he'd seen Mark leave for the day, logic dictated that Hugh had seen something in their bedroom that had caused him to look like he had.

Logic also dictated what (or rather, who) he must have seen, given he had not yet laid eyes on Bridget yet that morning.

He approached the master bedroom and paused for a moment before peering inside. Sure enough, Bridget was still abed. Feeling exceedingly protective, Nick stepped away and pulled the door closed.

He didn't think Hugh had gone peeking deliberately, judging from the way he'd so thoroughly coloured. But he found himself wondering about it just the same.

………

Cutting through the haze of dreams came a shrill ringing tone. Bridget jumped what felt like a mile out of sleep and into the reality of her bedroom. It was her mobile and out of sheer reflex she opened it and brought it to her ear. "Yes?" she asked muzzily.

There was silence at first before Mark's stern voice came on the line. "Bridget. You went back to sleep."

She sat up, trying to force wakefulness into her demeanour. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I only meant to cat nap."

Instead of more lecturing, she heard him softly chuckle. "I had a feeling you might, left to your own devices."

"I was just getting up," she explained.

"Yes, I'm sure you were," he replied. Maddening how he could sound so sweet and so patronising at the same time. She heard voices in the background behind Mark, then he continued, "Must get back, recess is over. See you later, love."

"See you." With a smile on her face she clapped the phone closed, brought her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms around them for a blissful moment of _I can't believe this is really my life_ before pushing back the linens.

Before getting a chance to actually get into the shower, her mobile rang again. The sheep-like quality of the voice told her instantly that it was Jude.

"He hated me, Bridge!"

"He didn't hate you."

"I'd have hated me… I knew from the minute I started talking about Vile Richard I'd made a mistake and it was over."

Bridget winced. "Oh, Jude, you _didn't_."

She started bleating anew. "Why do I always fuck these things up?"

Bridget sighed. "I just don't understand! Everything seemed to be going so well. What happened?"

"I don't know… it all seemed to fall apart after you and Mark left."

"Maybe he was just more comfortable with us there."

"Maybe," Jude said, though her tone told Bridget she was less than convinced. She sniffed. "I should go. Can I call you later?"

"Sure. I'm working at home today but otherwise I'm free."

"Okay. Thanks for listening, Bridge."

"Anytime."

Bridget disconnected, still deep in thought. She was sure at first that their presence at dinner then their departure was the key to the apparent success and then failure of the date—but the more she pondered it, the more she realised it didn't make sense. Hugh was such an extrovert. Unlike Mark he didn't need to be persuaded to be sociable. Maybe it had been a show to make Mark happy, or maybe it was get Bridget to stop trying her matchmaking efforts—but surely if he hadn't been having a good time he would have let it show rather than pretend otherwise.

She continued to focus on the answer as she wandered off to the shower.

………

Focus.

All he needed was focus.

Hugh really _was_ interested in the current plan for bringing low cost immunizations to Africa. It was a worthwhile cause, very important work, for the good of the nations of that continent…

If only he could push the image of Bridget in bed out of his mind.

He sat back in the uncomfortable folding chair he occupied in the hotel's conference room, running a hand back over his hair. This would not do. He took a breath.

Africa. Dying children. It would be so easy to help them with this plan.

The vivid gold of her hair. How easily she made him smile. How comfortable he was with her.

He sighed. This was ridiculous, and he knew it. He'd had incredible affection for her since he'd met her, but where were these crazy infatuated thoughts coming from? Was it simply because they'd had a lovely dinner together?

He would conquer this, if not for himself, then more importantly for Mark. He would not do anything to ruin his friend's happiness or their friendship, even if God Himself parted the skies and told him that Bridget was his perfect match.

Africa. Focus.

………

"Good morning, Uncle Nick," said Bridget as she descended to the lower floor. Unsurprisingly he was situated at the kitchen table, and from the looks of it was nearly finished with the crossword puzzle.

"For heaven's sake, Bridget, I've told you before you can just call me 'Nick'," he said, but she could tell he was fighting back a smile; secretly she thought he quite liked hearing her use the term so fondly.

"Yes, Uncle Nick," Bridget replied with a playful smirk. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well indeed. Mark if nothing else has excellent taste in mattresses." He paused to consider the crossword for a moment before adding, "Left some coffee for you."

"Mmm, thank you." After fixing a cup for herself, she grabbed a banana and walked over to the little desk in the corner to fetch her laptop out of the messenger bag she liked to carry to work. She took a seat on the sofa, opened the computer and fired it up.

"So what are your plans for the day?" Nick asked, looking up to see her with her computer on her lap. "Don't tell me you spend your days playing on that box."

She chuckled. "No, I'm working from home. Thought you might like the company."

When he didn't say anything in response, she turned her eyes to him. He looked genuinely bewildered.

"What is it?" she asked at last.

"You… went back to work? Mark let you?"

She couldn't help but chuckle. "This isn't 1955, you know."

He pursed his lips. "You probably noticed you don't _need_ to earn a living."

"Yeah, I've gotten the hints Mark has dropped. I _like_ working though. Keeps me busy."

She had a feeling that the response on the tip of his tongue involved the suggestion that she could take care of Mark's home to keep busy, but he said nothing, returning instead to his crossword puzzle.

She began to write, the words flowing out of her without much strain (which was always nice on the rare occasion when it happened), advising the single girls of the greater London area not to give up, never to settle, and to look in unexpected places for happiness. Her thoughts inevitably turned to her efforts with Hugh, and to Hugh himself, and how poorly those efforts had turned out.

"Did the muse abandon you?" came Nick's amused voice.

She realised she had stopped typing. "I was just thinking about Mark's friend Hugh."

Nick's attention was drawn to Bridget fully. "What about him?"

"I'm afraid he's upset with me."

His eyebrows rose ever so slightly. "Why would he have reason to be upset with you, my dear?" Funny how much he sounded like Mark with that sweetly condescending tone.

"Well, since he's been in town I've set him up on a couple of dinner dates with my friends because he's such a nice guy, you know? And they were disasters. I think he resents my trying. Suddenly he's acting very strangely distant around me, which is really not like him at all."

Nick did not reply, merely brought his fingers to his chin thoughtfully.

"What do you think?" Bridget prompted.

He looked to her. "I'm sure it's nothing. Don't fret about it." He folded his paper and set it down.

………

Nick hoped it was nothing, anyway. When he thought about the clearly embarrassed reaction Hugh had had upstairs in the hallway coupled with Bridget's description of Hugh's recent behaviour, it clearly spoke of feelings quite the opposite of upset or annoyed.

It could be a misinterpretation, he admitted to himself, and resolved to speak directly to Hugh before bringing it to Mark's attention. He decided to change the subject.

"What is it that you're doing for the television station here at home?"

She looked to him again from her computer screen. "Oh! I don't work there anymore. I work for a newspaper as…" She paused, almost as if to consider her words, before continuing: "A writer."

"Ah." A little alarm bell sounded in the farthest reaches of his consciousness, conjuring images of investigative reports and dangerously reckless research. Granted, this time Mark was not facing possible prison time, but he knew what Bridget was capable of and the risks she was willing to take. This suddenly became something he needed to discuss with Mark post haste.

He became aware of a knocking, which was unusual as they were on the lower floor of the house, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realised a woman was standing before the French doors, a desperate-looking woman with wild, sad eyes and auburn hair.

Bridget exclaimed "Magda!" as she set the computer to the side and ran for the door, allowing the friend entrance into the house. At least the woman wasn't a crazed stranger. "Jesus, Magda, what's wrong?"

The woman called Magda burst into uncontrollable tears as Bridget hugged her. She sobbed something into Bridget's shoulder, something Bridget clearly understood, because Bridget replied, "Oh, that _bastard_."

Nick cleared his throat. Both women froze then pulled apart from each other.

"Oh God. Magda, this is Mark's uncle, Nick Wentworth. Nick, this is my friend, Magda."

Nick smiled politely, said tersely, "I do remember seeing you at the wedding. Lovely to make your acquaintance again." Magda looked terrified, but smiled all the same.

Bridget turned back to her friend. "Come sit down, I'll make you lunch. Nick, would you like some lunch too?"

"I'll pass." He thought of the conversation he wanted to have with Mark, and rushed to the telephone. It was not so much a request as a command:

"Meet me for lunch in thirty minutes at that little restaurant I like around the corner from Inns at Court."

………

There was nothing Hugh wanted more than silence, away from talk of illness and research and even the good stuff like progress on cures. He realised he should go anywhere but back to the house on Holland Park, but he craved solitude as well, and drawing the curtains and lying down in the room that was his for the duration of his stay sounded far preferable than an afternoon of pharmacology discussion.

As he stepped through the front door he realised he had had nothing at all to eat that day, thought that a quick detour to the kitchen wouldn't hurt. Descending the stairs he heard muffled voices—then remembered Mark's uncle was probably here, and was probably watching the telly.

"Hugh!"

It wasn't Nick. It was instead the woman he had last seen asleep nude beneath the sheets in her own bed that very morning, and she was smiling beatifically at him. Thank God she had someone there, presumably a friend, red-haired, green-eyed… quite pretty.

"Hi," he said meekly, walking to the friend, offering his hand to her. She smiled shyly. "I'm Hugh."

"Magda," she replied, taking his hand, her lips curling up in a demure smile.

If ever an opportunity presented itself to distract himself from Bridget, it was now, with her right here in the room.

………

"Mark, I need to talk to you about your wife."

Mark furrowed his brows. "You came out of the house and dragged me to lunch to talk about Bridget?"

"Well, someone's got to watch after that poor child since you're clearly neglecting your husbandly duties."

Mark stopped chewing and simply stared at his uncle for many moments. He could hardly believe this was the same uncle that had been so thoroughly convinced Bridget was nothing but a gold-digging social climber only that past spring.

"How precisely am I neglecting my 'husbandly duties'?" Mark queried.

"Well, you've let her go back to work when it's perfectly obvious you can provide for her."

Mark was astonished at what he was hearing, and he laughed even though he knew instantly he should not have, judging by the look his uncle bestowed upon him.

"May I continue?" Nick said, obviously annoyed.

"Please do."

Nick reclined in his seat. "She's told me that she's working for a newspaper now, and given her propensity for attracting trouble, I'm concerned (and you should be too) that she'll get in over her head working on one of her investigative reports."

"What?" Mark said, beyond amazed.

"You saw what sort of unholy glee possessed her when she found the man trying to ruin you. How proud she was to have done it on her own and saved you. To have a job that pays her to that same kind of investigating…"

"What did she tell you she was doing at the newspaper, exactly?"

Nick looked very thoughtful for a moment. "She said she was a writer."

Mark laughed again, quite unbidden. "Nick, she's writing an advice column. While encouraging her tendency to dole out questionable advice, I'd hardly call it dangerous."

Nick cleared his throat very quietly. "I just think if you asserted your opinion a little more strongly she'd listen to you."

At this juncture Mark opted not to reply. He knew that when Bridget got it in her head to do something she would do it regardless of his opinion. He'd seen it happen too many times to not have learned his lesson. And if she wanted to work, why not? It certainly didn't harm him any for her to do so. He'd had the money to hire people to take care of the mundanities of his household for years, just as it was when he was a boy living at his parents'; he certainly wasn't going to stop now. He certainly knew better than to ask Bridget to manage the house—he loved her but he was also a practical man.

He realised with a dawning mortification that despite his pro-equality-of-the-genders stance, despite the offensive nature of the antiquated concept, he quite liked the notion of Bridget as a kept woman. Of being the one to keep her.

"Speaking of opinions," Mark said, deftly straying the subject of their conversation (and his thoughts) from his wife, "you told me you wanted mine about something of a rather pressing nature."

"Ah, yes. In the excitement I'd almost forgotten."

As Nick spoke Mark realised this was quite a big decision for his uncle, and he could see why the man wanted his opinion. Mark had to choice but to advise he simply carefully weigh the pros and cons—regardless of how Mark felt, Nick was the only one who could possibly know what the right choice was.

………

Bridget watched Hugh and Magda ascend the stairs with a certain sense of… confusion? Sadness? She wasn't quite sure how to classify the conflicting emotions swirling within her. Surely it was normal to feel forlorn upon realising that something one assumed was a friendship—at the very least, a budding one—was not at all what she'd thought it to be.

Bridget was of course very pleased at first at Hugh's interest in another of her friends, especially one having such a difficult time with an estranged spouse. As the time passed down there in the kitchen, Bridget realised the only words Hugh had said directly to her all afternoon were, "I'd love to have some lunch." When Magda, spirits clearly lifted at the attention he'd given her, announced she had to pick up the children from care, Hugh offered to walk her to the door… and did not return to the kitchen afterwards.

It was only through a quick email from Magda herself a couple of hours later that Bridget found out Hugh had asked her out for dinner that night. She was happy for Magda but also depressed in a way she couldn't fathom. Could it really have been that Hugh had never cared for her at all as a friend? Had it all been a show for his mate Mark? She realised now that Mark had picked up instantly that Hugh had been acting unlike himself, and who would know better? Was that terrible first impression on him in the country—sick, pallid, helpless, flighty and, worst of all, unfairly corporally disciplined—the one that had stuck with him this whole time?

She continued writing her piece as a welcome distraction away from her thoughts, finishing up a very polished draft and emailing it to her boss with plenty time to spare until her end-of-day deadline.

"Bridget, are you still working?" It was Uncle Nick descending the stairs from the main floor.

"Just finished." She set the computer onto the low coffee table, noticed the time. "You're just coming back from lunch?"

He poured himself a glass of water, drank down half of it in one swallow and set it down. "It's a lovely day and I took a walk as well."

She smiled. It was good to have his company again there in the house. "I was thinking of starting dinner if you're game to help."

Nick looked taken aback. She hoped it was not because he was remembering her sandwiches from early on in their acquaintance. "Certainly. What were you thinking of making?"

"Actually… I have no idea," she admitted sheepishly. "It's usually just what can be defrosted the fastest after we get home from work."

Nick's only response was a look that Bridget considered must have been terrifying to have grown up being subjected to repeatedly. Silently she joined Nick in the kitchen proper and opened the door to the refrigerator.

"Well, there you are," he said matter-of-factly. "There's a container of pesto. Presumably it hasn't been in there so long civilisations have taken root?" he asked with a grin.

She thought for a moment. "I don't know."

He picked it up. "Ah. It's got a date handwritten on it, three days ago."

Bridget brightened. "I remember now. The housekeeper brought it."

"Surely you have pasta?"

She nodded.

Nick grabbed a chunk of hard cheese, smelled it. "Parmesan. And how about greens?"

Bridget reluctantly shrugged. Even though she knew this was Nick's version of playful, his look had gotten slightly more disapproving and she felt like hiding in the linen closet. He reached in, grabbed a sealed bag of mixed baby greens and herbs. "This will do." He closed the refrigerator door. "The four of us then?"

"Three, actually. Hugh won't be joining us tonight," she said sadly.

"Oh. Have you spoken with him?"

"Briefly, but then he went out. He's taking another of my friends to dinner. Magda, actually."

Nick's eyes widened ever so slightly. "The one I met earlier?"

Bridget smiled, pleased that Nick had remembered. "Yes."

However, Nick looked more alarmed than anything. "The wild-eyed one that showed up at the French doors?"

"Yes," she said again with decidedly less zeal.

"Ah." She had known Nick long enough to recognise the tone was not a supportive one.

Nick quickly and quietly took the reins of meal preparation, directing her to fill the pot with water and to find the colander, such that she soon felt superfluous to the process. Her thoughts went again to Hugh and expanded to general feelings of failure as a hostess and a wife. When she heard steps on the staircase her eyes darted over to see who it was and as suspected it was Mark. She set down the strainer and went to greet him with a tight hug.

………

The way she clung to him concerned him immediately. "Bridget," Mark began softly.

"Not now," she said into his chest, answering the question he'd been poised to ask before he'd even had time to ask it.

He didn't press the issue, simply held her to him, planting a kiss atop her head.

He glanced to the kitchen, saw Nick busily grating cheese, and hoped her distress wasn't a result of time with his uncle based on their lunchtime conversation. "So what's for dinner?" he called.

"Pasta al pesto," he replied delightedly.

The timer went off and Nick pulled the pasta from the hob, grabbing the colander and draining and rinsing the pasta. It looked as if dinner was about ready, confirmed by Nick's calling, "Get the plates, will you Mark?"

He released his bride, kissed her quickly on the mouth and asked, "Later?" She nodded, a smile finally finding her lips. Mark strode then to the cupboard and reached for the plates.

"I'm given to understand it'll just be us three tonight," continued Nick.

Mark furrowed his brow, putting a plate back and setting them on the table. Fetching the requisite number of utensils, he asked, "Where's Hugh?"

"Taking another of Bridget's friends out. Someone called Magda?"

_Jeremy's wife? Jesus._ Mark looked to Bridget, realised his gaze must have been rather penetrating as Bridget mouthed, "Not my fault."

He let the subject slide and focused instead on the delicious dinner, during which Bridget seemed herself, if a little quiet, likely owing to the two lawyers steering the conversation into legal territory.

As Mark finished the last of his pasta, he said, "Delicious, Nick. Thanks." He saw Bridget deflate ever so slightly.

"You'll forgive me that I didn't make dessert," Nick said as he rose, reaching for his plate.

Bridget said, "Leave that. I'll clear the table since you cooked." There was no mistaking her dejected expression, at least not to Mark.

Nick withdrew his hand. "If you insist." He went into the kitchen and began preparing after dinner coffee.

He thought of Nick's question during lunch, thought Bridget could use a little cheering. As she brought the gathered the plates to the dishwasher, Mark said, "Bridget, Nick tells me he is considering taking a teaching position at Cambridge."

She turned back to the table. For the first time that evening she was smiling; it grew so broad that her eyes crinkled. "Oh, Uncle Nick, you _must_ take it. It would be so good to have you nearer to us."

Nick grinned as well. "I am leaning heavily in that direction." Mark rubbed his chin, still watching his wife as she came near to Nick to pull him into an affectionate hug. It was all the confirmation Mark needed that it couldn't have been Nick that was the cause of Bridget's distress.

If not Nick, then who? And why?

It wasn't until later in the evening, after he'd taken care of some paperwork he'd brought home with him, that Mark left his office intending on heading upstairs to both prepare for bed and see what had been bothering Bridget so much. As he did the front door opened and Hugh came in. "Hello old man," Hugh said. The smile on his face seemed a little forced.

"Hey. How was your evening?"

His smile tightened then fell altogether. "I shall never ever take a woman out again who is still obviously in love with her estranged husband. Or has three children. Or is overly used to speaking at length about medical dilemmas and feels even more free to do so if one is a doctor." He sighed, looking back to Mark. "I don't suppose Bridget has any normal girlfriends?"

Mark could not help but chuckle, clapping his friend on the back. "If she has, I have yet to meet them." Mark thought of his own observations and Bridget's continued comments regarding Hugh, and added, "I'm sorry. I'll be speaking to her about her Emma-like tendencies and ask her to back off. Clearly it's been bothering you."

"What?"

"Well, Bridget says you've been a little distant and I've noticed you're acting strangely… she means well, really, but her methods can be a little blunt."

"Oh." Hugh looked vaguely stunned.

"You all right?"

Hugh seemed to return to reality. "Yes, fine. I just don't want this to become a point of contention between the two of you."

Mark brushed his hand as to dismiss the idea. "Don't worry," he said with a smile, scaling the staircase.

………

If it were possible to get a room at a hotel Hugh would have gone in a second. Actually, falling through a crack in the earth would have been preferable. Bridget had obviously noticed the distance he'd continued to put between himself and her, and Mark plainly thought it was because of her attempts to set him up with one of her girlfriends. To further complicate things, there was no doubt in Hugh's mind that Mark's uncle had seen him retreating from the master bedroom's door—and who knows what Nick had made of that awkward scenario.

He went into the guest loo and prepared for retire for the night. As he headed for his own room, his gaze was drawn down to the end of the hall—towards Mark's and Bridget's bedroom door. He could not help but notice the distinct shadows coming from under the door of feet rapidly pacing back and forth. He could also hear raised voices.

Hugh felt about three centimetres high and vowed to be more aware of his behaviour.

………

"Bridget, you have to stop."

"Stop?"

"Fixing up Hugh with your friends."

"But Mark, I had nothing to do with the date with Magda."

"Bridget." Mark's voice was brusque, impatient, as if he were trying to cajole the location of his house keys out of a particularly impish three year old. "You're trying to tell me that Magda and Hugh just _happened_ to be here at the same time for lunch?"

"Yes!" she blurted in exasperation. He stopped pacing and gave her a look that communicated his disbelief in the possibility of that coincidence. "You can ask your uncle. He was with me— _alone_ —when Magda showed up at the French doors. How can I have arranged to set them up on a date when Hugh wasn't even here at first?" She waited for a reply from Mark, but he said nothing. She felt unnervingly like she was providing testimony in court. "Then Hugh showed up and seemed shocked to find me home, launched into introducing himself to then fawning over Magda the whole time, barely acknowledging my existence. After lunch he walked her upstairs and never came back to the kitchen. I only found out about the date by email afterwards, which I'll be happy to show you if it'll help my defence."

"Come on," he said with a tone that could best be described as dismissive. "Though I do suppose this is further proof to you that Hugh doesn't like you."

_Way to poke at that wound_ , she thought crossly. "I'm telling you, he may have seemed to warm to me at first, but I get the feeling he just _doesn't_."

"You're being paranoid," said Mark. "You do realise that you're also being very, as you call it, Smug Married."

"What?" she asked, stunned.

"Think of how much you resented your mother's interference in trying to fix you up with me," he explained. He couldn't, he _wouldn't_ , compare her to her mother! He then seemed to sense he was about to tread on very shaky ground, and changed course. "I think he's just feeling a bit battered about the head and shoulders after the one-two-three punch of your arranged dates with Sharon, Jude and Magda."

"I will remind you," she said, reining her temper in, "that Hugh himself volunteered to take out Shazzer when he overheard me running the idea by you. He agreed quite readily to come to the group dinner then take Jude to the movies when we couldn't go, and he asked Magda out himself with absolutely no encouragement from me. Whatever Hugh's problem is with me is not because of his failed dates with my friends." She blew frustrated air out from between her teeth. "I don't understand why you can't see this, Mark, or how you can _possibly_ think I'm imagining things."

He looked to her, his gaze as intense as ever, before dropping his eyes to the floor and turning away. She felt her stomach twist into a tight knot. Home from honeymoon for less than a week and already a fight.

After many moments like this he unexpectedly turned back to her then strode forward, taking her in his arms. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I should not have been such an arse, dismissing your feelings like that. It's just I've known Hugh so long, know he isn't capable of that sort of pretense. I'm certain there must be another explanation. I'll speak with him tomorrow, all right?"

"All right," she replied, feeling unexpected tears prick the corners of her eyes.

"There's something else, isn't there?" he said softly after a moment.

She let out a long breath, one she hadn't realised she'd been holding in. He always seemed to know. "I tried to make dinner tonight and I was a complete failure. I know your uncle meant well and I do appreciate his expertise, but he kind of… well, took over and in the same stroke made me feel like the worst hostess ever."

He pulled back to fix his gaze to her own. "Bridget, the ability to effortlessly cook like Marco Pierre White has never been high on my list of priorities for a partner."

"Obviously," she said bitterly.

He gently wiped his thumb under her eye, brushing away the wetness. "I much prefer the things that _are_ at the top of my list of priorities," he said matter-of-factly, "especially since you fit the bill on them."

She felt her mouth slip into a hesitant smirk. "Yeah, I suppose I prefer them too." She sighed. "I guess I know how Elizabeth Bennett must have felt when she first got to Pemberley."

He laughed sharply, squeezing her to him, then lessening his hold and stroking her back. "I'll bet you can't guess what's at the top of that list," he whispered.

"'Must have bottom the size of Brazil'."

"Come now," he teased gently, his hands sliding over her hips. "Bolivia, maybe, but not Brazil. Try again."

She giggled. "'Must like wearing bunny tails'."

She felt his fingers graze over where said bunny tail had previously been pinned. "Do you think I have a fixation regarding hind ends or something?" he asked.

"From the way your hands are rather keenly… Oh." She forgot what she was going to say. His teeth grazing her neck was the reason.

After a few minutes of undivided attention to her person through the all-too-solid cloth of her trousers and top, she offered in a feeble voice, "'Must like being seduced, daily basis preferred'."

He reared back to meet her eyes again. "You, my darling, take the prize."

With that he kissed her, thereby proving her guess correct.

………

Friday

One of the things that Mark had vowed to himself this time around the marriage wheel was to never let a day pass where he took his wife for granted. Of course, his first marriage was a mistake in every way even if he hadn't seen it at the time—he was well aware that he was at least partly to blame for the infidelity that led to her leaving him. He had not been attentive enough to that relationship, to her, with catastrophic results.

Although, he pondered as he gazed contentedly at his bride, if she _had_ been faithful, he might never have known the lovely woman currently sleeping upon his chest, might never had had the chance to fall so deeply in love. The world works in mysterious ways.

He raised his hand and brushed a frond of hair away from her nose, causing her to stir slightly as it tickled her cheek. Another thing he'd vowed was to never go to bed angry, a seasoned piece of advice from his mother that he still wished he'd heeded during their ill-fated skiing minibreak. Another mission accomplished; they had made up from that evening's row and then some.

Intruding on his reverie was the unwelcome opinion of his uncle, whose imagined voice happened to choose this time of post-coital sentimentality to reiterate his feelings. Mark was her husband now. They had bound themselves to one another with rings and vows and yes, it was his duty to do all he could to keep her safe, happy and never wanting for anything. Lying there looking so small and vulnerable as she dozed with the most untroubled of expressions, he was reminded of how obstinate, how fearless she could be as the voice in his head recounted all she'd done to ferret out the man who'd been hell bent to ruin him. She could have easily been hurt… and he realised how very empty his life would have been, would be, without her in it.

She opened her eyes suddenly and raised them to him, a sleepy smile overtaking her lips as she lifted her head. After glancing at the bedside clock, she said, "It's a little early to be waking me with thought vibes, isn't it?"

"It's all a matter of perspective," he said after a thoughtful pause.

"How do you figure?" she asked.

"Well, it is true that I don't have to be up for just under six hours, and you, eight or nine," he said amusedly, "so in that sense, yes. Too early. On the other hand…"

She raised a brow.

He continued: "It may simply be that I require your assistance to get back to sleep."

"Ahhh," she said, her lip curling up on one side into a smirk. She rested her cheek back down on his chest. "How do you propose I do that?" she asked, moving her hands down along his sides to his hips.

"I trust you'll think of something."

………

As he turned over in the middle of a dream when the veil of sleep was especially thin, Nick realised he really should have known better than to think of staying with a pair of newlyweds so soon after their honeymoon. It was, from the indistinct sound of it, as if the honeymoon had not ended. Even though he was not thrilled to have such intimate knowledge of things happening behind closed doors, he was of course happy that they enjoyed such regular physical contact—important, he thought, to the health of any relationship—and that Bridget had eyes for no one but his nephew.

It did not appear that Mark was the only one with eyes for Bridget, though.

Nick had not had the opportunity to speak with Hugh again since that previous morning and the strange encounter in the hallway. He suspected that Hugh would get up and head out to his conference early in the morning, but Nick vowed to keep close to Bridget, to further observe Hugh's behaviour around her when the opportunity arose. He also vowed that if he didn't like what he observed, he would make his opinion very well known to Hugh. He liked the boy and didn't fancy shattering a long-standing friendship, but Nick would not have anything ruin Mark's and Bridget's happiness.

………

"You'll _what_?"

Bridget smiled as she sat up as perkily as if she'd had coffee already, though he had not made any as he had assumed she would still be fast asleep. She couldn't sleep though, not when she was so hyped up over her newborn idea. "I'll go down to the kitchen and make everyone breakfast."

Really, there was no need for Mark to stare at her as if she'd gone mad. Her return glance must have been quite penetrating, for he hastened to add, "You don't have to get up and do that. We're all capable of feeding ourselves. You can sleep in a bit."

"But I _want_ to make you all breakfast," she said pleadingly.

He smiled. "Is this because you still feel like you're being a poor hostess?"

"No," she said too quickly, realising that it just might have been that after all.

He was good about not pointing out the obvious, and simply replied, "Well. I look forward to your breakfast, darling."


	3. Chapter 3

Friday, cont'd.

"This is nice," said Hugh, grinning broadly. "It's like we're a little family."

He noticed Mark and Nick smile in return, though there was a hesitancy to Nick's smile he felt curious about. All four of them—Mark, Bridget, Nick and himself—were in the kitchen, and the three men were taking their seats at the table.

"Everyone want toast?"

They all advised that they did. Hugh's stomach did a little flip when he glanced over to see how happy Bridget looked, turning over what he presumed to be eggs in a pan before picking the whole thing up and dividing up the contents between four plates.

"Whoops," came Bridget's voice as the toaster popped. "It's a little on the dark side. Sorry about that."

"I'm sure it's fine," piped up Hugh. Mark nodded.

"I'll put another batch in," she offered, turning back to the toaster.

"That's quite all right," said Nick. Hugh realised Nick was gazing hawk-like at him and not Bridget.

She brought the toast rack to the table. She had not been exaggerating. It was the darkest toast he had ever seen that wasn't actually blackened. Hugh reached for a slice without hesitation and scraped a little of the overly charred outer layer off onto a serviette, then slathered some butter on.

Bridget beamed, then went back to fetch the plates of food.

She returned momentarily and presented each of them with what Hugh presumed was fried breakfast. He could just make out the echoes of mushrooms, tomatoes, some bits of sausage and bacon and possibly beans amidst the eggs. Hugh looked to her, realised she was waiting with great anticipation for their collective reaction, then glanced around the table to see Mark and Nick had picked up their forks and were tentatively poking at their food.

"Looks delicious," Hugh said with what he knew was a forced brightness, smiling and hoping it didn't look as false as it felt.

"Yes," Mark added quickly, also smiling, raising a forkful to his mouth. Hugh could tell there was a moment's hesitancy before he pulled the fork back out of his mouth. "Mmm."

"Very good, but I wonder if you have any brown sauce?" asked Nick after a taste.

"Of course!" She popped up. Hugh watched her walk to the cupboard until he realised he was under the scrutiny again of Mark's uncle. He reined his broad grin in and pulled it into a restrained smile, bringing his gaze back to his plate, and finally tasted a bite of her cooking.

Quite simply, it was dreadful. It was all he could do not to spit it out. He reached for the salt and the pepper, then, when Nick had finished drowning his plate with brown sauce, he swept up the bottle and did the same.

Mark, stoic and strong, marshaled on with no additional condiments. Hugh could not recall when he had ever felt such a respect for the man.

Bridget, still smiling, lifted a forkful to her own mouth, and he watched as she started to chew, the horror dawning on her face impossible to miss. "Oh," she managed through her food, then swallowed, looking utterly deflated.

"What?" asked Hugh, gulping down another mouthful.

She pulled her lips into a straight line, then looked at each man in turn, settling finally on Mark. "You're…" she began.

"…enjoying breakfast very much," finished Mark, looking up and locking her gaze with his own. Neither blinked until her lips curled into a reluctant smile and a faint pink touched her cheeks.

"Yes," said Hugh and Nick almost simultaneously.

The three men cleared their plates while, Hugh noticed, Bridget merely pushed her food around hers. Perkily she cleared the plates away immediately after, as if she did not want them to see she hadn't really eaten at all, scraping her food into the sink and then flipping the disposal switch as if to grind and wash away any evidence of the atrocity that was breakfast.

After realising his gaze had once again lingered so long upon Bridget in the kitchen that he had attracted Nick's eyes once more, Hugh returned his attention to his coffee and took another sip. He hadn't really noticed while eating—as he was using it to wash down Bridget's cooking—that it too was not particularly good, too weak and somehow at the same time littered with coffee grounds. He decided he had probably had enough.

Almost as if the three had planned it, the men rose from their seats together. Nick apparently had an appointment to keep, Mark had to go to work, and he himself had to be at the conference. Bridget came over to their little group and singled Mark out, sliding her arms around his waist and lifting her face to accept Mark's kiss. Hugh turned away out of politeness. Moments later he heard her quietly say, "Thank you," so blessedly it was not a protracted kiss.

"Well, Bridget, try to stay out of trouble," said Nick with a smirk. "I'll see you later. Thanks again—it was very kind of you to make us all breakfast."

Hugh turned to her again. She was smiling very broadly, Mark's arm still around her shoulder, she leaning into him affectionately.

"Yes," Hugh said. "Thank you."

"It was my pleasure."

They filed to the stairs—Nick, Mark and Hugh—and as they ascended, Hugh glanced back to her. Amusedly, he watched her pull a container of yoghurt out of the fridge before he continued up to the main floor.

As he reached the foyer, he saw that Mark had continued into the loo, but had not shut the door. Puzzled, Hugh opened his mouth to speak when Mark immediately returned with a bottle. He unscrewed the lid, shook it upside down, and handed his friend and uncle several antacid tablets each before pocketing some for himself.

"For later," Mark explained, popping two into his mouth, chewing, swallowing, then smiling weakly.

……..

Behind the wheel of the car he'd borrowed from his sister, Nick pondered the scene at breakfast, analysing every movement, dissecting the meaning of every word. There was, in his opinion, no question that Hugh had some sort of feelings for Bridget. He was doing his best to hide it, which meant one of two things: he didn't want Bridget and Mark to know, or he didn't want Mark to. Nick had seen the way Hugh had looked at her, then averted his eyes when Nick had caught his gaze. He had noticed the way compliments for her were ready on the tip of Hugh's tongue. He knew that Mark and he had cleared their plates out of a love for Bridget and regard for her feelings—so why else would Hugh have done so? Eating that swill went above and beyond the bounds of sheer politeness.

He wondered if Mark had noticed, if Mark would say anything; wondered too if he should be the one to bring it to Mark's attention if he hadn't noticed.

The towering edifices of the revered university came closer into view, and he switched gears on his mental processes. Time for the meeting that would help him to decide his future once and for all.

………

_Working from home could really spoil a girl_ , thought Bridget. She finished reading though her article once more, and was fully satisfied that it was complete and finished. She had incorporated the editorial suggestions her boss had given her, fixed the occasional typo that the spell check had missed (like 'to' instead of 'too') and was getting ready to write a CD for Jen to pick up as she said she would at the end of the day. Bridget was quite proud of the fact that she had finished ahead of schedule, and considering the humiliation of making and serving such a horrid breakfast (from which she doubted she'd ever recover), she needed something to feel good about. As breakfast goes, she didn't know where she had gone wrong—she'd seen her mother make deluxe fried breakfast a million times before. She knew the three men had eaten their servings out of a sense of duty, not because it had actually tasted good, and it touched her beyond words that they had. Not even she could stomach eating her own cooking.

She set the laptop onto the coffee table, stuck a blank disk in, and set the burning in motion. Unexpectedly she yawned, and as she watched the progress bar for the CD writing software inch ever towards completion, she rested back on the arm of the sofa and closed her eyes for what felt like a moment… until the shrill tones of her mobile startled her back to the waking world. She sat up, glanced to the clock in the corner of her computer screen to see an hour had passed, and palmed the phone. Incoming caller display proved it to be Mark. She grinned and opened the phone to take the call.

"Hello," she said, her voice still soft and uncertain post-slumber.

"Were you sleeping?" he asked, his tone verging on school headmaster's.

"I dozed off while waiting for a CD to write," she explained. "Might I remind you that sleep was at a premium last night?"

She heard him chuckle and reply softly, "No need to—" He paused, obviously stifling a yawn of his own. "—remind me. The reason I called," he continued in his normal speaking voice, "is to let you know I may be running a little late. Some things have popped up that I can't leave until Monday."

She deflated a little. She'd really been hoping for Mark to meet her boss. "I understand."

He said nothing for a moment. "Think about what you'd like for dinner, okay?"

"You don't want me to cook?"

"Darling," he said in a tone so gentle and placating she might have considered it offensive had it been anyone else, "your culinary talents have already been called upon enough for one day."

The possibility he might take her out to dinner overwrote any irritation at his teasing, and brightly she said her goodbyes. As she set the mobile back onto the coffee table and ejected the long-since burned disk from the drive, she head footsteps on the stairs.

"Hello Bridget," came a gravelly voice; she smiled.

"How did your meeting go?" she asked eagerly.

………

In truth the meeting had not gone all that well. Nick frankly was not inclined to take their offer, as much as he delighted in the thought of being closer to a family he'd been separated from by an ocean for longer than he wanted to think about. He did not dare dash her hopes, instead saying, "Not bad."

"Did you tell them yes?" she asked, putting a computer disk into a jewel case.

"I haven't given them an answer yet," he said neutrally. "Have to by Sunday."

"That's cutting it close," she said, glancing to him then back to writing something on the disk.

He reached into his pocket, felt the edges of the packet against his finger. He hadn't dared smoke in his sister's car and he was craving a cig now. He glanced to Bridget and had an idea. "Am I the first home?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm," she affirmed.

He waited for her to look to him again before he pulled out the Benson & Hedges box. "Care to join me for a fag?"

"Ohhh. I really…" She'd drifted off, her eyes glazing over as they fixed on the box. " _Really_ should not."

"Come on," he said conspiratorially, as if he were urging a small child to throw a mud pie at his mother.

Clearly torn, she stood, then smiled guiltily. "Okay."

Once through the French doors, Nick watched Bridget's ecstatic expression as she took a drag on the lit cigarette. "God, it's been a long time," she said wistfully, holding the cigarette close to her. "Whatever you do, don't tell Mark."

"Of course not, my dear," he said, drawing from his own lit stick.

After a few moments of contemplative silence, Bridget said, "Mark's working late but we might be going out for dinner."

"I guess it's every man for himself then, myself and Mark's friend." He instantly recalled breakfast that morning and his observations therein. Casually he said, "So. Have you and Hugh been getting along well? Is he being a gentleman?"

Bridget chuckled, flicking away ash. "Always, and to a fault. He's been a little too quiet and distant lately as a matter of fact, except for this morning. I was beginning to wonder what I'd done wrong."

Nothing indicated to Nick that she was not being truthful, but he continued to watch her anyway for the possibility she was lying. He knew she was not the best actress in the world when it came to falsehoods but even still, any possible slip at this point on her part would hurt Mark twice as bad.

"As long as everything's okay." He dropped his butt end on the stone patio and stomped it out, then reached to pick it up. As he did he saw her with her arms crossed, lit cigarette between her first two fingers, deep in thought (or at least appeared to be). He wondered to himself how he could have ever not considered her anything but the beauty that she was, especially as happy as she was with Mark. She also seemed to be totally unaware of that beauty, was even rather self-effacing when it came to her looks, and that only added to her attractiveness. He realised how easy it would be to fall for her, and Hugh, young, intelligent, and with two perfectly functioning eyes, might just have done so no matter how unintentionally. He vowed to speak to Hugh as soon as it was possible.

"Shit," she said suddenly, glancing inside, then took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaled forcefully before dropping the end to also step on it.

"What is it?"

Swooping down to collect the butt end, she explained, "It's after five. My boss is coming to pick up that disk, and if she comes to the door I'll never hear it out here."

"Then by all means, let's go inside."

He opened the door then allowed her to precede him through it. As Bridget swept towards the coffee table he could hear the faint knocking on the front door as he got nearer to the stairs. He glanced to Bridget, who apparently had decided to take a moment to double check the integrity of the disk she'd burned. She had not heard the knocking.

"I'll go and get it," he said as he scaled the stairs.

Once he reached the front door, he swung it aside to find a striking older woman in a finely-cut charcoal grey business suit standing there, her blonde-streaked brown hair loose around her shoulders. Her smile turned to a look of confusion.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must have the wrong house."

"Are you looking for Bridget?"

The confusion did not dissipate. "Are you… Mark?"

Nick grinned broadly, then found himself chuckling. "No, I'm Nick Wentworth, Mark's uncle. Bridget's just downstairs." He hadn't noticed at first that she must have been at least twenty years' Bridget's senior. _A little old_ , he thought with amusement, _for a secretary._

"Ah," she said, stepping through the threshold and into the house. "I'm Jen Wolford, Bridget's editor. It's nice to meet you."

"You're Bridget's _boss_?" he asked, stunned.

She furrowed her brow and seemed primed to reply when he heard footsteps behind him, followed by Bridget's voice. "Hi, sorry Jen, was getting your disk ready."

Jen turned to Bridget with a grin to accept the disk, her retort apparently forgotten. "Much appreciated. You know, I showed your article to O'Rourke and he absolutely went over the moon. Talking about how this might well open doors to more interesting assignments. In fact, tomorrow we're to meet for lunch with him at one at the Ivy to discuss things."

Nick assumed from the context that this O'Rourke person must have been the editor-in-chief, and that by the look of sheer glee on Bridget's face, he took 'interesting' to mean nothing less than 'dangerous' or 'foolhardy'.

"Really?" asked Bridget in an awed whisper.

Jen continued. "Yes. You see, I find it absolutely imperative to connect younger, talented women with opportunities and help them earn the respect they deserve in such a male-dominated—"

_Oh, such feminist doggerel_ , he thought with a snort. _Young women should be taken care of by their husbands._ He then realised she'd stopped speaking.

"Have I said something amusing?" Jen said, voice verging on cross.

"I apologise," he said. "I just didn't think anyone actually spoke like that."

"Spoke like what?"

"With such obvious prejudice against men."

Jen's mouth dropped open ever so slightly, furrow back in place on her brow. "I beg your pardon?"

He could not help the smile that had found his features. "If feminists want equality for women, then why do they spend so much time focusing on giving women all the rights? I've never quite understood that."

"Feminists _are_ for equality for women," replied Jen hotly, "which can only happen when men stop giving other men preferential treatment. I see nothing wrong with doing my part to level the playing field."

"Two wrongs don't make a right," he reminded.

Not missing a beat, Jen said, her colour high, "And every action has an equal and opposite reaction."

He caught Bridget out of the corner of his eye; specifically he took note the look of surprise that had overtaken her face, and decided to let the disagreement fall to the wayside. "Touché," he said in his most gracious of tones, then bowed courteously at the waist. "Miss Wolford, a pleasure to meet you, but I have an urgent phone call to make." He then turned to head back down to the kitchen.

………

"I'm really sorry," said Bridget, waiting for the vented wrath against Nick that was sure to come. After all, this was the same woman who on past occasion had hung on to residual anger hours after a heated debate with O'Rourke over something as minor as the placement of the Sunday arts feature.

Slowly, Bridget's boss looked to her. Jen was still flushed in the face, but her voice was unexpectedly incredulous. "Is he for real? I haven't been called 'miss' since I was sixteen years old."

Bridget was beyond gobsmacked. "I don't think he meant anything by it," she managed. "He's kind of old-f—"

She held her hand up, and Bridget stopped talking. "It's all right." She smiled. "I haven't been this amused in years. Thanks for the disk, Bridge. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Lunch, remember? With O'Rourke. The Ivy, one p.m." She was herself again; she even winked. "Have a good night."

As the door closed behind her boss, Bridget could not help but think it was one of the most startling encounters she'd had in a while. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought she'd seen sparks flying.

She smacked herself hard on the forehead. Could she possibly go right with Nick where she'd gone wrong with Hugh? That little disagreement had been very telling—that was an unmistakable response by Jen, and Nick looked happy to have engaged in the verbal spar.

Bridget smirked.

………

Mark sat back in his office chair, running his hand across his forehead. "I am five minutes away from being finished. Can this please wait?"

"I really think you need to come home and deal with your wife."

Mark exhaled heavily through his teeth. "'Deal' with her? You're being quite ridiculous."

"You didn't hear the conversation she had with her boss. They're talking…" Nick had always had a way with dramatic pauses, and they always seemed to work. "…more interesting assignments. And I'm sure you know what that means when it comes to Bridget."

The first prickles of danger started making their way down Mark's spine. "All right. I'll have a word when I get home."

He finished up his work and drove home to find a particularly beaming wife. He smiled and took her in his arms. "I've had a really fantastic day," she said into his shoulder, then pulled back to explain all about what she'd heard her editor-in-chief had said. He listened as if Nick had not told her at all, but felt a mounting unease. The way her eyes were sparkling, he had cause to be worried.

Tentatively he asked, "What sort of interesting stories are we talking about?"

"Oh, I don't know…" she began dreamily. "Rooting out corruption in Parliament; uncovering atrocities of war…" Then, seeing his undoubtedly blanching skin, she burst out laughing. "Mark, I'm teasing. You don't have to look like that. Come on, let's go have some dinner."

He forced a smile onto his face, slipped his hand around her waist, and led her out to the car. Calm, reasoned discussion about her job would happen after he'd eaten… and had regained his bearings.

………

Hugh had never been so glad to see the end of a medical conference, and was half-tempted to get his things, throw them into the boot of his car, and drive back to Stratford straightaway. He was afraid that he wouldn't be able to keep up the act with Bridget, to keep her from guessing his feelings for her. Strangely enough however there seemed to be absolutely no one around when he came back to Mark's house, and given their generosity so soon after their honeymoon, he certainly did not want to leave without saying goodbye. _Ah well_ , he thought. _I'm too tired to drive right now, anyhow… and I'd love to get a meal down me._

"Hugh."

After putting his heart firmly back into his chest, he turned to see Mark's uncle at the top of the stairs to the kitchen. "You gave me a fright—didn't think anyone was home."

"Just you and me." A corner of his mouth curled up. "I've whipped together some bangers and mash… if you're interested."

…As if reading his mind. Hugh smiled.

"Care for a beer?" Nick asked as they moved into the kitchen, then held up a Guinness. Hugh was beginning to get a little suspicious. Nick was being particularly friendly, and he could not help but wonder why.

They took seats at the table and began to eat in earnest when Nick cleared his throat. _Here we go_ , thought Hugh.

"Hugh, I'd like to speak to you about Thursday morning."

Hugh set his fork down, looked to Nick, felt his stomach drop down as he seemingly reverted to age eleven again about to be scolded by his father. He had nearly forgotten about that encounter, hadn't given it a thought after Nick seemingly let it slide.

Nick continued to speak, not looking up from his dinner. "I'm curious to hear your explanation for why you were looking into the master bedroom and in on Bridget."

Hugh felt his face crimson against his will. "I just wanted a peek because it was the only room I hadn't seen. Mark usually keeps the door closed, and it was open. I had _no idea_ she was in there. I backed away as soon as I realised—"

Hugh stopped speaking when Nick held up his hand, then looked up at last. "I saw you step back. Saw you blush like you're blushing now, even before you knew I was there. I could tell it was unintentional."

"Why ask me then?" he asked.

Hugh realised exactly which side of the family Mark had gotten his most penetrating stare from. "You have a thing for Bridget, haven't you?" Nick asked softly.

It was impossible, under that gaze, to deny it.

"I see," said Nick, interpreting the silence correctly.

Hugh forced himself to look away. After a few moments he asked in an unsteady voice, "How were you able to guess?"

Nick chuckled. "I was a young man once too, you know. And I remember what it was like to look at a woman the way I saw you looking at her."

Hugh pressed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. In a way he was relieved to get it off his chest. He sighed. "I never intended on doing anything about it."

"I know."

Though it meant a lot to him to hear Nick say that, Hugh looked up again, gripped with panic. "I don't want her to know. Certainly don't want Mark to know, not after what happened with Daniel."

"Neither will hear from me." Nick resumed eating, but it didn't fool Hugh into thinking this conversation was over. Hugh was right. A few minutes later Nick asked, "Tell me, what was the trigger?"

"Pardon?"

"Was it right away, when you first met her last year in the country? Was it something at the wedding? Or was it something directly related to your dates with her friends?"

"We had dinner together on Tuesday night, and yeah. It was pretty much the perfect date."

"So. Is it Bridget, or is it the date?"

Hugh blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I don't think it's Bridget you have these feelings for so much as you seeing Bridget as the personification of everything you want in a relationship. You see how happy she makes Mark. Ergo…"

Surprisingly a laugh bubbled up in his throat. It was so absurd as to be the absolute truth, and he felt foolish for not realising it sooner. "Are you sure you're not a psychiatrist?" he said.

Nick glanced up to him again. "Am I right again?"

"I think you already know the answer to that," he said, grinning reluctantly.

"Ah. Well. I must confess," Nick said, "that even I harbour a little envy when it comes to their happiness. But if you ever tell a soul…"

Feeling unexpectedly light, Hugh laughed again. "My lips are sealed."

Hugh swirled the last bit of banger through the remaining mashed potato on his plate, then popped it into his mouth. "I do love her though," he said thoughtfully after he swallowed it, "but in the same way I love Mark. And he's like a brother to me."

"It's not hard to," Nick said in a voice that was almost too quiet to hear as he rose and began clearing the table. Hugh stood to help.

………

They were pulling into the drive after dinner and Mark still had not managed to bring up the topic of her job. She had been so happy about her work coup that she had done the talking for both of them, and it would have felt mean to reply to her proud achievements with a request for her to give it all up.

He was still thinking about how to approach her with this as they entered the house when her voice drifted through to him and the meaning of her words was instantly clear:

"She's so _smart_ , and orders of magnitude nicer than D—er, Perpetua or Finch ever were as a boss… I wish you could have met her today. It really surprises me that she's still single."

"Who?" he asked, coming back to reality.

"Weren't you listening? Jen."

Mark's frustration at his inability to frame a logical argument for her leaving her job came to an unexpected head and he turned to her. "You will not start this again," he said darkly.

She looked surprised. "Start what?"

"This ridiculous obsession with finding a date for Hugh. Just leave it alone."

"I didn't say anything about Hugh!" she said.

"Bridget, there are times, and I've witnessed enough of them to know, that you just don't know when to let something go."

"Something that you've benefited from, as I recall," she said, her eyes narrowing, undoubtedly referring to her secret investigation to catch the man who had been behind the unjust accusation against him.

"That's neither here nor there—that could have just as easily turned badly for you, and though I've thanked whatever God is up there that it didn't, if we had it to do over again I would rather have lost everything than risk you—"

"Risk me?" she said, her voice high and tight, echoing through the foyer. "Do you not think I knew exactly what I was doing?"

"I think—" he began hotly, but then stopped to regroup his thoughts. This was not going well at all; the last thing he wanted to do was rehash that old disagreement. "I think," he began again in a decidedly quieter tone, "that sometimes you misjudge a situation and don't quite know when to stop. I'm afraid that the next time you— _we_ —will not be so lucky."

She stared hard at him. "You can't possibly be referring to Hugh, unless he has a secret background in MI-5 that I don't know about."

"No. Though that does prove my point."

"Which is what, exactly?" Her fists were planted firmly on her hips now.

He spoke in what he hoped was his most level, reasoned tone. "If you can't be mature enough to know when to stop for something as trivial as finding Hugh a girlfriend, then how can I believe you'll know when to stop when it comes to these new, exciting, 'interesting' assignments?"

However, she looked as if she had been slapped across the face.

"I see," she said, fighting a quiver in her lip. "So I'm not mature enough to handle a tough job."

"I did not say that."

"That's certainly what I heard, Mark." A tear slid down her cheek but she seemed determined to ignore it. "Unless there's some deeper meaning to what you've said."

"I have had a change of heart." She looked alarmed. He quickly continued to clarify. "I want you to leave your job altogether. There's no need for you to work, financially speaking, and your safety is of primary concern—" He stopped.

Her mouth hung open in shock; tears were flowing freely from her eyes now. "I never would have expected this from you. Never." She raised her hand to dry her face, then, looking to him with big glossy eyes, turned and marched up the stairs without so much as a backwards glance.

_That could have gone better_ , Mark thought with a heavy sigh, leaning against the banister and covering his eyes with his hand.

………

Overhead Hugh could hear the distinct sound of footsteps, accompanied by familiar voices. It was like a switch had been thrown, though, and Hugh did not feel the strange flutter in his gut when he heard Bridget's voice drift down from above. He smiled. He felt as if he'd been cured.

He climbed the stairs intent on greeting them, but stopped midway when he realised that not only were they arguing, but they appeared to be arguing about _him_ , and it was leading to other previous points of disagreement.

"Why'd you stop—"

"Shhhhh," hissed Hugh; Nick apparently had had the same idea. "Listen."

They both heard Mark question her maturity and judgment. Hugh cringed. They heard the fight grow silent. Nick said, "Well, I wouldn't expect Bridget to take the news well."

"News?"

"That he wants her to quit her job."

Forgetting for a moment that he was trying to keep quiet, he said, "What? That's ridiculous."

"Why else would she be reacting so strongly?" Nick asked.

And then they heard it: they actually heard Mark tell Bridget he wanted her to quit. Hugh was shocked. Nick looked frighteningly smug. Bridget's voice in response was quiet, then they heard her retreating up the stairs to the second level.

"What's gotten into him?" whispered Hugh.

"Sense, I imagine."

Hugh shot a look back to Nick. "I'm going to talk some sense _back_ into that man. I don't know _who_ ," he emphasised accusingly, "might have planted these ideas in his head but he needs to be set straight."

Not waiting for a retort, Hugh marched up the stairs, saw Mark leaning against the railing. "Mark?"

He started a bit, turned to look at Hugh. "Hey, old man," he said in a feeble attempt at joviality.

"I… couldn't help but overhear," Hugh said. "I feel a little guilty that your row seems to have started because of me."

"Well," Mark said, looking to the ground. "The distance you were putting between yourself and Bridget because of her seeming obsession with—"

"No," said Hugh firmly, swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat. He knew then he had to correct Mark's misapprehension, regardless of the cost.

Mark looked back to Hugh. "'No'? I don't understand."

"That isn't why I was avoiding Bridget," he began unsteadily. "I'm afraid I… was starting to feel a little too attached to her."

Mark screwed up his face. "What do you mean?" he asked, though he sounded like he might have already guessed.

"There's nothing to it," he hastened to explain proactively. "I would have never allowed it to go anywhere. Nick, bless his crusty old soul, helped me to see where it was coming from. I'm fine now."

Mark stared piercingly at his friend, and the lines of his face smoothed out as comprehension of Hugh's meaning filtered though his head. "Oh," he said rather quietly, looking down again.

"It wasn't anything specific that she did or encouraged in any way," he added. "So please don't be angry at her. You can be angry all you like with me."

"No," he said, blinking very rapidly. "I'm not angry with you."

A revelation. "How can you not be, after D—"

Mark cut him off, his voice still very low, as he looked back to his friend. "It's nothing like Daniel. You have never been anything but honest with me and I trust you in a way that I was never able to trust him. And when you say you would never have pursued it, coupled with your behaviour over the last few days… I believe you."

Hugh felt his soul lighten yet again, put his hand on Mark's upper arm. Mark smiled. "If she got through my uncle's defenses and got him to love her like the niece he never had," Mark continued, now grinning, "you hardly stood a chance."

"Hell, I always wanted a sister. And this, ironically enough, brings me to my second point," Hugh said, clearing his throat. "What's this Neanderthal-like nonsense I overheard about wanting Bridget to quit her job? What's next, barefoot and pregnant? Revoking her right to vote?"

Mark's grin faded. "She doesn't seem to realise at times how dangerous things can be," he said stiffly.

"I think she knows full well how dangerous things can be. But there are times when she sets that aside because she loves you."

"I'd rather there were times she would step back from doing them because she loves me."

"So the alternative is… to guilt-trip her into quitting her job and staying home? She's a high-spirited person, Mark; you can't cage her because you want to keep her safe. That would destroy those things about her that you love."

Mark pinched the corner of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I know you're right," he said after some moments, his voice muffled by the palm of his own hand. "I guess I overreacted from the lack of control over the situation by—"

"—exerting more control than you're entitled to. Yes, Mark, I _have_ known you a long time," Hugh said, keeping his tone light, clapping him on the shoulder again. "Go on up there and beg forgiveness. Groveling to a woman when in the wrong has never failed me."

Mark raised his eyes to Hugh again, smiling once more. "Thank you."

"What's a brother for if not to kick his sibling in the arse?" he joked, and with that, he watched Mark ascend upwards.

He returned to the lower floor, saw that Nick was hovering around the kitchen, tidying things up that had long since been tidy.

"I would recommend," began Hugh, "that we stay down here for a bit. Steer clear of the kiss and make up."

Despite the fact that Hugh knew Nick would have much rather liked to have seen Mark exert his will and have Bridget be a stay-at-home wife, he saw a smile flit across the older man's face. "Probably not so bad an idea, after all, especially for we Neanderthals."

………

Unbelievable.

Bridget stared down at the holdall she'd stuffed to bursting and felt fresh tears in her eyes again. That he would sincerely ask her to quit her job and stay at home like some pampered trophy wife, after so many reassurances that he respected her as a person in her own right with a career and ambitions of her own, was completely unbelievable. She struggled with the zipper but finally managed to get it closed.

She could sense his presence behind her before he spoke. Her head lowered.

"Please, Mark. Please leave me alone right now."

"Are you planning on going somewhere?" he asked softly.

"Yes." She sniffed, lifted her chin, and turned back to him. When she saw how miserable he looked her resolve almost faltered. Almost. "I'll be spending the night at the flat, seeing as there are no guest beds available. You can go commiserate with your uncle, who I am certain is behind this request of yours—"

"I'm sorry."

She stopped, the bag falling from her grasp. "What?"

He engaged her eyes and did not look away. "I was completely and utterly wrong. I regret ever suggesting that you were incapable of handling complicated, dangerous jobs. You're an adult and as much as I love you and worry about your safety, I have to learn to respect your choices."

He strode forward, took her hand, and to her astonishment, dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss into the back of it before resting his forehead on it.

"Please forgive me my lapse in judgment," he said in conclusion in a most contrite tone. "I think you'll do wonderfully, and I _am_ proud of you."

She felt renewed tears spring to her eyes, although this time they were from joy. She didn't know what (or who) had caused him to come to his senses but she was glad he had. She tugged his hold on her hand; only then did he turn his face back up to her.

She tugged her hand again. "Stand up."

Bridget was not conscious of a smile overtaking her features but from the way he reacted, the hope that took residence in his eyes, it must have. He stood.

She laughed. "Of course you're forgiven, you wonderful, ridiculous man," she said as she threw her arms about him, holding him tight to her, tears flowing freely now.

"Please do promise me," he murmured as he stroked the hair on the back of her head, "that you will keep my concerns in mind when you accept your exciting and interesting new assignments."

She pressed her damp cheeks into his dress shirt to wick away the tears, mindful afterwards that she had probably smudged mascara onto his chest. "No live coverage from war zones, no drug sting operations. Check."

She felt him rock with a silent laugh. "And please, no more interference in Hugh's love life."

She smirked. No need to mention her nascent plans for Nick and Jen. "I promise. And _you_ … no more taking stock in your uncle's, er, _outdated_ opinions."

"Wouldn't think of it."

"Good. _Now._ " She reared her head back. "Let's get on to the best part of making up after a fight."

Grinning, he raised his hands to run his thumbs beneath her eyes, confirming her fears about the makeup. She loved the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled, but even more she loved the way he drew her into a kiss, that moment of hesitation during which he seemed to want to breathe in her very soul. His hands were strong on her back but as gentle as ever, and it was so easy to fall into the comfort of this familiar ecstasy as he kissed her, kept kissing her…

"Bridget," she heard him say gently in her ear, his hands releasing the curve of her backside. "You're crying again. Are you really all right?"

She knew immediately why she had begun to weep again. "I thought you had regretted ever marrying me."

He knew the very moment: "When I said I'd had a change of heart. Oh, Bridget, I'm so sorry. I realised my misspeak immediately when I saw your face." He brushed away the tears again, then traced a line along her throat. "Marrying you isn't something I'll ever regret. Let me prove it to you once more, hm?"

She couldn't help but sniff and giggle. "If you insist."

Everything about the tenderness of his caresses and the urgency of his kisses said that he did in fact insist.

………

Saturday

"…sense into you?"

The sun cut a swath of golden light across her curves, and Mark had been so engrossed in following those curves with his eyes as she lay curled up on his chest asleep that he didn't realise she'd awakened and started speaking.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"I said, who do I have to thank for talking sense into you?"

"Guess."

"Our other guest?"

"You're a genius."

"No. Psychic. Reading your thought vibes."

He bent his head to plant a kiss in her mussed hair. "It's Saturday. You know what that means."

She laughed lightly, raising her head to look at him with luminous blue eyes. It was a wonder there weren't more men completely in love with her, he thought. He watched as the unmistakable signs of disappointment washed across her features, her eyes flitting beyond his shoulder to the bedside table.

"Have you another appointment?" he quipped.

"Actually—I do," she said morosely. "I'm supposed to meet my boss and my boss' boss for lunch at the Ivy at one or so. And here we are, already ten, I need to shower..." She trailed off.

"You know," he murmured, running the pads of his fingers where his eyes had only just been exploring, "your boss' boss must be very important to get a lunch reservation on a Saturday at the Ivy on such short notice."

"Mmm," she replied noncommittally as his blunt nails raked back along the very same path.

"And surely, knowing the flexible nature of time for very important people, the chances of him being there at one p.m. on the dot are slim to none."

She reached up and placed a lingering kiss on his throat. "What are you driving at?" she asked huskily.

She really should know better than to leave a line like that wide open.

………

"Good morning, Hugh; good morning, Uncle Nick."

Both men turned to see the bright, shining face of Mark's beloved wife. As she wasn't throwing a murderous glare his way, Nick guessed she was either not angry at planting the seed of what had become the newlyweds' row last night… or she was no longer angry.

Nick's eyes glanced to Hugh. His little talk with Mark's friend the night before had definitely done some good. He saw nothing on Hugh's face but fondness. "Good morning, merry sunshine," Hugh said, setting down his sandwich. "Nearly good _afternoon_. You look like you've slept well."

She demurred. "Well enough," she said, pink tingeing the apples of her cheeks.

Nick was going to have to insist on the farther of the two guest bedrooms should he have to stay at Mark's again. "There's some coffee left for you."

"Terrific. Thank you." She went over to the French press and fixed herself a cup, gulping it down in practically one swallow even though it must have grown quite tepid.

Mark came into the kitchen. He looked happy if not exactly well-rested.

"Coffee?" she asked him, setting her cup down.

He swept up behind her, slipped a hand around her waist and kissing her lightly on the top of her head before he glanced down to his wrist. "Darling, you should probably go or you'll be late."

"Oh!" She spun around and kissed him briefly. "I'll see you all later." With another little smile turned and bounded up the stairs.

"All's well that ends well?" asked Hugh; Nick watched with some interest as the men shared a look, then Mark's face split into a smile.

"All has ended very well."

"Very good."

"Where's she off to?" Nick said, gesturing in the direction of the stairs.

"Lunch at The Ivy."

"Damn. Can't leave without saying goodbye," said Hugh.

"Are you working tonight?" Mark asked.

"No, not 'til Monday, thank God, but I was going to go back to…" Hugh trailed off.

The boy was clearly looking for an extension on the invitation, which Mark was eager to do. "If you're not keen to get out of town as soon as possible, I was wondering if I could take you to lunch, then maybe run a few errands—"

"Buy your wife a present to make up for being such a chauvinistic brute," Nick interrupted drolly.

Neither of the younger men responded, merely smirked.

"You're welcome to come too," said Mark, who'd suddenly looked mortified at the thought of inviting his friend over his relation.

"No, no, you boys go and have a good day out. I have some thinking to do and the solitude will do me a world of good."

………

It was nearly one-thirty before Bridget and her boss had seen hide or hair of O'Rourke, but he more than made up for his tardiness by insisting he was paying and that she choose whatever she liked from the menu—"I mean it; don't pick a lowly appetizer just to be polite," he'd said, pointing an accusing finger at her and smiling—and ordering the most expensive wine they had for their group. He was as sharp as a whip, mature and even-tempered; and such a charming man without being manipulative, which was a particularly good thing to have in an editor-in-chief and a far cry from the last one she'd worked for.

He took a look at his watch at approximately three o'clock and said with great gravity, "Well, I have another appointment at two-thirty, so I best be off. You ladies have whatever else you like for dessert. They'll charge my gold card with the total bill when you're done."

"You're too kind," said Jen in a tone that Bridget could not quite define.

With a smile and a wave he departed.

After a few moments, Bridget picked up her wine glass and drained it. "You know," she said, feeling a bit squiffy, "I've just realised we didn't talk work at all."

"Sure we did," said Jen with a wink. Ahhh. "How about we keep talking work over dessert?"

Bridget laughed and eagerly ordered the chocolate soufflé and a cup of soberingly strong coffee.

The service in this place was as astounding as its reputation had suggested it might be; their coffee and desserts were delivered within minutes. "You know," began Jen as she tucked into her Chocolate Fudge, "you should have invited your husband. I'd really like to meet him. And I'm sure O'Rourke would love to meet the man that managed to snag you."

She almost choked on her coffee. "What makes you say that?"

Jen smirked, and Bridget realised her boss' earlier tone reflected a certain amount of amusement. "He's a generous man, but not usually this generous when it comes to a meal. My only question is why is it that men seem to always be attracted to married women?"

The question blindsided Bridget: was she only being promoted because the boss fancied her? The thought must have shown on Bridget's face, for Jen burst out into a laugh as she continued to speak.

"It's not at all what you think, Bridget. He's simply charmed by you. Called you 'a breath of fresh air' and 'a writer with a modern, offbeat voice'."

"Oh." Bridget assumed from the context that that must have been a compliment, and smiled unsurely.

"I suppose," continued Jen in a surprisingly maudlin tone considering how little she'd had to drink, "that married women have an ease about them that unmarried women don't. They no longer have that constant nagging at the back of their heads whether or not the man they're talking to could be the man they were fated to be with. They're free to be themselves, which is the pisser, because they've already got the partners, right?"

She mused about Mark's declaration to her so many months ago, the one that had gotten her attention and led her to consider that perhaps he wasn't an arrogant bastard with bad taste in jumpers. "I've found that to be true," Bridget said dreamily. "When Mark told me he liked me 'just as I am', I thought I was going to fall over from shock."

"Stupid modern culture," Jen replied, spearing a forkful of her dessert. "I have a confession," she said, drawing close to Bridget, fork in hand like a magic wand, dribbling crumbs on the tablecloth; it was the most casual she'd ever seen the woman. "At the end of my day, what I'd really love to do is simply to shed the hard as nails, ball-buster routine and spend my evenings with a man who could really just… take care of me. Mind you," she added quickly, "I have no desire to roll the clock back to the Stone Age, but… you know." She sighed. "Have someone to love. You don't have to be a traitor to feminism to want that, do you?" she asked rhetorically, staring into her coffee cup.

Bridget saw her boss with new eyes, saw a vulnerability about her that she'd never seen before, and suddenly the similarities to Mark's uncle were all too clear to her. Beneath that toughened exterior was a woman looking for someone to make her happy.

Jen spoke up: "Are you going to answer your mobile?"

"Oops, sorry."

She saw it was Mark and flipped open the phone. "Hello, Mark."

"This is my cue to visit the ladies'. Be right back," Jen whispered.

"Bridget. Are you still at your lunch?" asked Mark.

"Mm-hmm."

"It's pissing rain out there. Hugh and I are nearby and I was wondering if you'd like me to come and pick you up."

Hearing Mark's voice should have set off caution bells, but the thought, the plan, was already half-formed in her alcohol-sodden brain. She and Jen were not that far from Café Rouge, after all… "No… we're still having dessert. Thank you though."

"All right, darling. See you for supper. I love you."

"Love you too. Goodbye."

She closed her phone and pondered. Mark and Hugh were not at home… she wondered what Uncle Nick was up to…

She was interrupted from her thoughts by her boss. "Sorry, Bridget, I hadn't realised the time. I'm going to have to go. Sorry to have to abandon you. Will you be all right to drive?"

She put on her most convincing face considering she had taken a taxi there. "Oh, absolutely. Don't worry about me."

She watched Jen depart, waited a few minutes, then stood to leave also.

As Bridget made her way to the exit of the restaurant, she realised with a measure of surprise that O'Rourke's second appointment had been in the front of the restaurant, or at least it must have been, because there he was sitting at a table there under the awning protected from the rain and smoking a fag.

"Mr. O'Rourke?"

He looked to her. "Bridget! What are you still doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same."

"I'm waiting for my minicab. Really backed up for some reason. Were you wanting a taxi? Where do you live?"

She had been so focused on her plan that she'd forgotten she actually would need a ride home. "Holland Park Road."

His eyes lit up. "I'm practically 'round the corner from you. If you need a lift…"

"That'd be terrific! I just, um, need to make a quick call. Be right back."

"Okay."

She walked back near the restaurant, opened her phone and dialed the home number. Sure enough, Nick picked up.

"Uncle Nick! Is Mark at home?"

"He's gone out with Hugh. Try his mobile."

"I did; his mobile must be turned off," she said, sounding as desperate as she could. She glanced to O'Rourke; he couldn't hear. The rain was very loud now, which worked very well for her plan.

Nick was appropriately dismayed. "Bridget, child, what is it?"

"I need you to come and get me. I'm calling from just outside Café Rouge on Basil, the taxis are backed up to hell and gone—"

"What's wrong with your car?"

She blinked. Why was everyone assuming she had driven? "It, uh, won't start. And there are some scary twenty-somethings giving me looks…"

"I'll be there in five minutes. Go and wait inside. You'll be safer."

"Thank you, Uncle Nick. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

She closed the phone. O'Rourke was totally lost in thought, and the minicab hadn't shown yet. Smirking devilishly, she opened the phone.

"Jen Wolford speaking."

"Jen, oh, thank God. This is Bridget. I can't get through to my husband, my car died… I'm just outside Café Rouge on Basil…"

………

As Nick was driving east on Cromwell, he realised he ought to have given Mark a call, or at least tried. It was Mark's wife stranded on the side of the road, after all, and he didn't have a mobile that worked in the UK. But time had been of the essence, and she'd sounded scared, so he thought he would be forgiven in retrospect. Nick might not have lived in the London metro area for many years, but he still knew its streets and alleys like the back of his hand.

The rain was beginning to abate somewhat. He turned right onto Hans, keeping his eye out for Bridget's car. He realised at that moment he had no idea what her car looked like; she must have normally kept in the garage or parked down the street from the house while Hugh was visiting. He swung around and onto Basil, finding a spot just opposite the distinctive red awning of the café, and parking the car, dashing inside.

He looked to the bar, but did not see Bridget. The bartender, a lovely young lady with blonde-streaked auburn hair, asked him if he was expecting to meet someone. "Yes… a young woman, blondish hair. She called me and asked me to meet her here at the bar as her car had broken down just outside."

The bartender screwed up her face in concentration. "I don't remember seeing anyone like that recently. Are you sure it was here?"

"Unless there's another Café Rouge on Basil, which I realise is entirely possible…" he said, drifting off along the edge of annoyance.

"I'm very sorry, sir; I suppose it's possible she's slipped into the loo. We have been a touch busy this afternoon. Would you like a drink while you wait?"

He thought for a moment. Knowing Bridget and her penchant for tardiness (which would not surprise him even in what she would consider an emergency situation) he figured he could safely have a shot of scotch. "And make it the oldest single malt you have."

She blinked. "We have some thirty year we keep on reserve."

"Perfect."

He sat at the now-abandoned bar as she slipped away for wherever it was they kept their reserve, wondering where his niece could possibly be. His mind started to conjure possibilities that the scary thugs had managed to abduct her and had just about made up his mind to abandon the bar when he heard a stunned voice behind him.

"Mr Wentworth?"

He turned to see that Bridget's boss had materialised behind him. Even though she was slightly sodden from the rain, she seemed more attractive in this less polished state.

"What are you doing here? I thought Bridget couldn't reach anyone from home."

"Bridget called me to come and—" he began incredulously before stopping. He suddenly knew exactly what she had done, and despite everything, he grinned. "Oh, Miss Wolford, I am afraid we've been had."

"What are you talking about?"

The bartender rematerialised with the bottle of Glenlivet. "Ah," she said, opening the bottle and pouring the requested shot, "I see you've connected with your friend." He nodded, took the drink, and took a sip.

Jen looked to Nick, aghast. "Obviously she contacted me first, before she called you. She sounded really panicked. We should go and find her straightaway. Maybe she's gone back to the car."

Nick knew from first hand experience that Bridget was no great actress, so she must have pulled out all the stops for this performance. "Bridget's fine. Come, I'll buy you a drink for your trouble."

Jen's colour rose. "I can't believe you're not taking this more seriously! Do you know how many women are seriously hurt and even _killed_ because someone, some _man_ , didn't listen to her cries for help—"

"She's simply being a naughty child," he said, causing her jaw to drop once again. "I'll wager she's on her way home right now." He pointed to her handbag. "Go on, if you'd like to call her mobile."

Jen simply stared for a moment; whether it was his cheek for suggesting her employee was a naughty child or because she hadn't thought to call Bridget herself, he was not sure. She slipped her mobile out of her handbag, dialed Bridget's number, and after a moment someone obviously picked up. "Bridget!" said Jen. "Are you all right? … Oh, thank God! Where are you? Where's your car? … Oh." Jen's eyes flew to meet Nick's. "Well, as long as you're okay, that's all that matters. You can come back for the car later. … It's okay, rain sometimes will knock out my mobile service … All right then. … Yes, yes, you're welcome. I'll see you on Monday. Goodbye." She disconnected the call, put her phone away, and stared hard at Nick. "How on earth did you—"

"She hasn't been married to my nephew long," he began, "but I've come to know her very well." He grinned; her features softened considerably. "The offer for the drink still stands."

He could tell she was fighting a smile all the way, but at last she gave up and he watched as it spread across her face like the sunshine that now flooded through the windows of the café. "Thank you very much."

………

After an excellent day out to lunch and a bit of shopping with one of his best mates from university, Mark pulled his car into the driveway. In the rear view almost immediately he saw a minicab pull up behind it. He glanced over to see that Hugh had seen it too.

They emerged from the car. Mark watched as Bridget stood from the taxi, followed by a man he did not know. He was smiling, and it was obviously directed at Bridget. Mark felt an irrational surge of jealousy well up inside of him. He pushed it down with some effort.

When Bridget's eyes lit on Mark and she beamed at him, the stranger's eyes turned to Mark. "You must be Mr Darcy," he said, wide smile still in place, extending his hand towards Mark. "I'm Robert O'Rourke, editor-in-chief. I've heard a lot about you."

Mark took it and shook it, feeling immediately calmer. "Please, call me Mark. It's very nice to meet you. This is my friend, Dr Hugh Carri." Hugh shook his hand in turn.

The menacing look from the minicab driver broke their little meeting up. "Should go. Have a good weekend," Richard O'Rourke said upon noticing, climbing back into the taxi. The three stood there for a moment watching the vehicle speed away before anyone spoke.

"Did you have a nice day?" Bridget asked, embracing Mark.

"Hmm, yes," said Mark distractedly, noticing that his uncle's vehicle was not parked in the street where he'd last seen it. He furrowed his brows.

"Ooh, let's go inside. I could murder for a hot bath—I'm chilled from the rain before—and I really have to use the loo," she said, breaking from his embrace and heading quickly towards the front door.

"What is it?" Hugh asked quietly as they followed.

"Nick's car's not here."

"He's probably gotten bored and gone out."

"That's not like him. He likes to go out and take walks when he gets bored, not a drive."

"I'm sure it's nothing."

They stepped into the house. Bridget had already disappeared from sight. Mark half-expected to see a note on the table in the foyer from Nick, but there was none to be found. Very peculiar. Unfortunately, Nick did not have a mobile so he could not contact him that way; Mark would just have to be patient. His thoughts turned to Bridget. Her lunch must have been a good one; she'd been so distracted that she hadn't even noticed the carrier bag her husband was holding.

"So what was it that you bought for yourself?" Mark asked, pointing to Hugh's own bag.

Hugh smirked in a frighteningly evil way. "It's a surprise for after dinner for your viewing pleasure. Good gift choice for Bridget, by the way. Really shows your support of her career."

Mark could not help but grin. That was the point, after all. "Thanks. You were right. She would have lost a pen within minutes," he said ruefully.

Bringing their bags with them, Mark and Hugh went into the front room, switching on the telly. After watching highlights from the big football matches of the day and some serious deliberation for the evening's plans, they decided upon pizzas for dinner, and Hugh volunteered to pick them up.

"Bridget will be okay with pizza?" Hugh asked.

"Are you kidding me? If it were up to her we'd have that every night," Mark joked.

"Mark. Hugh." It was the overly calm voice of his uncle, and it was coming from the entryway leading to the foyer. Mark whipped around to see Nick standing there with an unreadable expression on his face. The unpleasant side of unreadable.

"Nick! Where have you been?"

"Looking for your wife and her death trap of a vehicle."

Mark was stunned. "Vehicle? Bridget doesn't even _have_ a car."

It was Nick's turn to look floored, but he recovered quickly, back to the slightly defensive yet undefined look. "You haven't ensured her safety by getting her a car? Why on earth not?" he asked, pointing accusingly. "Where is the brat? I'd like a word."

"She's taking a bath," Mark replied, surprised to hear Nick refer to Bridget this way. He must have been really angry.

"Hmmmpf," he grumbled. "I'll speak to her later about why both Miss Wolford and myself were both called to her rescue." He then turned to leave.

"I," said Hugh as he rose to fetch the pizzas, "am staying out of his way tonight."

Bridget's rescue? Nick and 'Miss Wolford'? "Oh Christ," Mark muttered.

When Hugh asked why he made the comment, Mark explained; Hugh then expressed doubt as to whether or not he should return at all with the pizzas. "After all, I don't want to stumble back onto a homicide scene…" he joked.


	4. Chapter 4

Saturday, cont'd.

The one thing Bridget loved about this house—as if there weren't a multitude of things to love about it—was that the master bathroom had an enormous, pool-like spa bathtub. She could fill it with the hottest water she could stand and just float, letting the stress of the day seep away. She was not feeling particularly stressed that day, but the rain had truly chilled her and it felt good to soak.

She sensed a presence above her, opened her eyes to see Mark towering over her like Big Ben over the Thames. She sat up and smiled. "Coming to join me?" she quipped.

When she blinked the water out of her eyes, she saw that his face was etched with lines that bespoke of annoyance. His voice however seemed more weary than anything. "When I asked you to promise me not to try fixing up Hugh anymore, it was not implicit permission that you should then move on to Nick."

Her heart dropped into her feet. How had he found out? "What makes you say that?"

"An interesting little conversation I've just had with Nick seems to suggest you asked two different people—both him and a Ms Wolford—"

"My boss, Jen," she interrupted.

"— _your boss_ to come to rescue you after your non-existent vehicle broke down."

His eyes kept drifting down to her bare chest then flitting back up, which stole a little thunder from his indignation. She smirked. "I never told Nick I had a car. He assumed—"

"Bridget, don't split hairs." Weary tone again. "You were trying to set Nick up. He came home looking very eager to speak with you and he didn't seem happy at all."

She didn't reply. What had seemed like a fantastic idea under the influence of that very fine wine now seemed hastily (and poorly) thought out. What if they'd had an even worse argument than the one they'd already had? This was her boss; how awkward would her work environment become if things went horribly wrong? She looked down to the surface of her bathwater, which seemed suddenly tepid.

"Come on," she heard Mark's voice say gently, saw his hand extend out to her in the periphery of her vision. "Hugh's gone to get some pizzas and has apparently planned a night for us in front of the telly."

She looked up to him, stood up out of the water, found herself smiling despite her grim thoughts come Monday morning. He reached, grabbed a towel for her, and wrapped it lovingly about her and tucking a corner over her chest before slipping his hands around her waist.

"What sort of night in front of the telly?" she asked.

"I have no idea. It's a surprise." His hands moved to her hips. The towel was too short to be a proper wrap, and with the span of his hands it meant that his fingertips were also touching her bare bottom. She smirked again; he could be very predictable at times. "And you… even though you haven't been a very good girl today," he said, "I have a surprise for you as well."

"What's my surprise?"

"Two actually."

"Oooh." She stepped up onto her toes, preparing to kiss him. "What are they?"

His reply consisted of a playful slap on her rear.

"There's surprise number one," he said, his lips twisting into a smirk of his own and stepping back. "Put some clothes on. Dinner is imminent."

She pouted. Clearly she was predictable as well.

………

One cheese and pepperoni, one deluxe, and one plain cheese: the makings of a perfect evening, in Hugh's opinion. Hugh had stopped for some more Guinness to round out the menu and was just entering with the three boxes and the beer when he heard the distinct sound of crisp dress shoes on the parquet floor. Hugh turned to see Nick heading towards him and for the door dressed in his coat, clearly on his way out.

"Not joining us for dinner?" Hugh asked, surprised.

Nick gave the pizza boxes an amused look. "Sorry to miss such fine cuisine," he said in a teasing tone very unlike him. "I have last minute plans."

"Oh," Hugh said stupidly. Watching Nick stride to the front door, he added, "I'll let Mark and Bridget know."

"Thank you," he called back as the door shut behind him.

Navigating the stairs to the kitchen was a bit tricky but he managed it without incident. He set the pizzas down on the counter, put the beer down, then went back upstairs to fetch his purchase from that day. As he crossed the foyer he heard Mark and Bridget descending from above.

"What's surprise number two then?" he heard her ask of Mark.

"You'll see. Ah, Hugh, you're back already."

"Yep, brought the pizzas down to the kitchen. Was coming back for the bag containing our entertainment for the evening."

"Ah. Get my bag too, will you?" Mark asked as they continued on to the stairs to the kitchen.

He saw Bridget's face light up like a child's on Christmas morning. Mark must have told her he had a present for her. He ducked into the front room for the bags.

When he got downstairs he handed Mark's carrier bag to him. Bridget's glee was adorable as Mark then passed the bag on to her.

"Before you open it," Hugh said with great gravity, "if you for some reason don't like it, you can blame Mark. If you like it, however: it was my idea." She giggled, then pulled a wrapped gift from the bag.

As she tore a corner of the wrapping paper back, she gasped. "Oh my gosh!" She looked up at Hugh then Mark, then back down at the box. Inside was a top-of-the-line digital voice recorder. "Thirty hours of recording time? This is awesome! Thank you!"

Hugh watched with great pleasure as she first gave him a smile, then positively beamed at Mark. "I just wanted you to be well-prepared for your new assignment, whatever it might be," said Mark.

The change on her face was subtle but Hugh recognised it immediately; he could tell she understood his words to offer the full support he'd intended them to. She set the box down on the nearby counter, then embraced him tightly. "Thank you, Mark."

"You're welcome." Mark glanced over to Hugh, and he smiled and offered a thumbs-up. Mark grinned, then planted a light kiss into her hair. Hugh pantomimed turning away should he want to offer her a real kiss, but he shook his head and mouthed that it was okay.

Hugh was having none of it. "I'll serve up the pizza if you want to properly thank your husband," he said, walking around them and to the counter.

"I can _properly_ thank him later," Bridget joked from behind him, "but for now…" The brief silence might have been excruciating a few days ago, but now made him smile as he opened door after door in search of some plates.

"They're one more door over," came Mark's voice, and suddenly his friend was at his side. "Why don't I finish this and you can cue up your new DVD?"

"Oh, it's not mine. I bought it for you and Bridget."

"For us?"

"Mm-hm. To thank you for letting me stay through the week. Go ahead and open it."

Hugh heard the rustling of the plastic bag behind him, then a squeal. "You didn't!"

As Mark turned to see what Hugh had purchased, Hugh watched his expression turn to one of horror. "You didn't," Mark echoed.

"I've always wanted to watch this," she said with great amusement, holding up the deluxe box set of the entire run of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" on DVD.

"Excellent!" He walked over to Bridget and took the package from her hand. "We could start from the beginning, but honestly things start to get really good in the end of the third series…"

"Oh goody! I've heard a lot about the whole Doctor/Captain thing…" She hugged Hugh quickly and pecked him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you!"

He grinned. "You're welcome."

Bridget flopped down onto the couch as Hugh cracked into the series three disc and popped it into the player. As Mark handed her a plate with two slices of pepperoni and cheese pizza, the theme song started up, and Mark groaned more loudly than strictly necessary.

"I'll get the beer."

"I'll have one as well," called Bridget.

"Bring over the entire pack. I'll need it," said Mark, seating himself in the center of the sofa beside his wife.

"Aye, Captain," Hugh retorted.

Bridget laughed. Mark merely groaned again.

………

Mark would never admit it to Hugh, but he had forgotten how much he had enjoyed that television show. Bridget had continued to yell things at the screen when moments of romance between the primary characters were not taken advantage of, but now, several bottles of Guinness and quite a few episodes later, she was dozing lazily against his shoulder. Hugh had flat out fallen asleep during a forgettable episode involving the sister of a deceased crew member, and he was still out cold. Mark was immediately reminded of what Hugh had said about having more than one beer.

Mark perked at the sound of movement on the floor above, and slipped out from under Bridget and off of the sofa. "Where are you going?" she murmured sleepily as William Riker struggled to remember sixteen years of his past.

"To the loo. Be right back," he whispered. She nodded.

Mark heard Hugh wake suddenly. "Oh my God! This is a really good episode. Not as good as 'Frame of Mind' in one of the later series, but…" His voice faded as Mark ascended the stairs.

The light was on in the front sitting room. Hugh hadn't known where Nick had shot off to on such short notice but it didn't surprise him that even at this late hour he'd stopped to have his customary tumbler of scotch. After leaving without so much as a goodbye, he figured Nick must have been quite angry at Bridget.

"Nick," he said without waiting for his uncle to turn from the table housing the scotch. "I wanted to apologise for my wife's actions before."

"Mark—" Nick began.

Mark continued. "She meant well, I'm sure, but she has no right to try to set you up with anyone, an arrangement you could have hardly approved of under normal circumstances—"

"Mark," Nick said again as he swiveled his head to look at him.

"Let me finish," Mark said, calling to mind every detail Nick had ever brought up regarding Bridget's working situation in order to placate him: "—but then she tries to set you up with her boss, a feminist responsible for encouraging her dangerous career ambitions when she _should_ just stay home and let me take care of her—"

" _Mark_ ," Nick said once more with a measure of finality, his voice oddly dark as he turned fully to face his nephew. He was holding two tumblers of scotch, which Mark found peculiar. "I'd like you to meet Jennifer Wolford."

At that moment Mark regretted ever arranging the furniture in the front sitting room in the manner that he had, because out of the wingback chair that faced away from the entrance to the room rose a woman, who turned and, with an expression of surprise—no, horror—on her face, looked piercingly at Mark.

"We're having a nightcap after our very pleasant dinner together," continued Nick coolly, handing the woman a tumbler. "Jen, this is my sister's son and Bridget's husband, Mark Darcy." Mark wished he'd never come upstairs, wished the earth would swallow him whole. "He's very good at espousing gibberish he doesn't actually believe simply to try to please me."

Jen still looked suspiciously at him, but stepped closer to him with her hand outstretched. "I've heard so many nice things about you from Bridget," she said tentatively, as if she actually believed Bridget had perhaps been fabricating each one of those nice things.

He smiled and accepted the handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, still not quite trusting his voice. "Well." He cleared his throat. "I'll let you get back to it. Good night, Nick, Ms Wolford…"

He retreated and headed back to the kitchen, feeling like a mongrel with its tail between its legs. He had not sufficiently recovered his composure upon resuming his seat on the sofa, so that when Bridget asked him what the matter was, he further compounded his misery by telling her what had just transpired.

He had never quite seen her look so smug. "After-dinner nightcap!" She clapped her hands together, beaming a smile. "Oh, that _does_ bode well…" Returning with the last three beers, Hugh was standing behind Bridget's peripheral vision and grinning too; Mark thought probably because he was happy to not be the subject of her experimentation anymore.

"Don't look so self-satisfied," said Mark. "I can't think of a relationship he's had that's lasted more than two weeks, and he's not on the best of terms with any of his exes."

Bridget looked at him as if he were mad. "But this is different. I can tell. This was meant to be."

Still standing behind Bridget, Hugh silently drew a finger across his throat indicating to Mark to let the subject drop, which he was more than willing to do. "Here," said Hugh, handing each of them a bottle. "Have another beer." He held up his own as if he were toasting. "To love, romance, and crappy special effects from the early nineties. Come on. Captain Picard awaits!"

Bridget began to giggle as she took a deep draw from her bottle then curled into Mark's side, looking up at him in a way that made him wish they were upstairs behind the closed door of their bedroom. He wondered how obvious that wish reflected upon his face, for she leaned forward, kissed him, and murmured, "Remind me to thank you properly later. We should stay downstairs for now."

………

Sunday

Despite having stayed up a little too late the previous evening, Nick found himself up at his usual time, feeling wide awake and as perky as ever. He was not so foolish as to believe one lovely evening with a charming, intelligent woman was the reason. At the very least he knew better than to believe it was the only reason.

Upon entering the kitchen, he noticed that the three kids—he could hardly help but to think of them as such—had fallen asleep in front of the telly. He tread gently across the floor and switched the power off on the front of the unit, glanced over to where Mark and Bridget were spooned up along the length of sofa, he holding her protectively in his arms, then down to where Hugh had taken a pillow from the other end of the sofa and crashed out on the floor. He smiled. He was glad the three of them had had an evening of friendly bonding—or at least he hoped they had.

Blinking against the light Mark opened his eyes. "What time is it?"

"About seven."

"Oh, crikey," he whispered. He managed to settle Bridget down onto the sofa without disturbing her. "I'm going to pay for sleeping like that," he said, rubbing the side of his neck.

"Why don't you take your wife up to your room, sleep a couple more hours in comfort?"

Mark blinked again, looked as if he'd suddenly remembered the evening before when he had said some rather embarrassing things; Nick had been able to adequately explain the meaning of Bridget's actions and Mark's words and by the end of their drink together in the sitting room, she'd been chuckling and thinking the whole thing very amusing.

"I'm not going to… I'm not in danger of meeting anyone on my way up there, am I?" Mark asked quietly.

He knew what Mark was delicately trying to ask, and Nick stifled a laugh. "I would never be so uncouth as to have a lady over while I am a guest in someone else's home, my boy."

Who knew a grin could be so infectious? Mark saw his own, and smiled in return. "You truly had a good time? You don't have to be polite for Bridget's or my sake."

"I truly did. I'll be seeing her again before I leave tomorrow night. And probably again when I return."

"Return?"

He hadn't meant to say anything so soon in the day about accepting the position with Cambridge lest it look like he was only accepting a meager offer at best from the place because he was nothing more than a young fool with a puppy-love crush. He had to admit though that coming back to England, coming home, had never seemed so appealing.

"Yes, return."

"Cambridge?" Mark guessed.

Nick nodded.

"Fantastic. Bridget will be as pleased as I am. I'll leave breaking the news to you."

Nick pointed to the sofa, where Bridget was sleeping at a rather uncomfortable angle. "Go help her upstairs. I'll put the toe of my shoe into your mate's side, get him up off of the floor and into his own guest room."

He couldn't, after all, appear to have softened too much.

………

The last thing Bridget remembered was drinking a Guinness and being pressed comfortably up against Mark on the sofa on the lower-most level of the house. Now suffering from a low-grade hangover, she found she was ensconced in linens in the king-sized bed, the late morning sunlight streaming in at an oblique angle. The moderately large lump to her left suggested Mark had accompanied her, possibly even carried her (or at the very least, assisted her) up two flights of stairs, poor chap.

She wiggled over to said lump and pulled the sheet down. Indeed Mark was sleeping like a proverbial log, his mouth slightly agape, snoring softly. She intended on surprising him with a kiss on the nose but her dangling hair, which had gotten a little longer than she liked, reached it first, tickling him and causing him to swat at his face as if he were being buzzed by an obsessed fly.

Instead he managed to swat her in the nose.

"Ow!" she exclaimed, her hands flying to her face as she rolled away. His hand had hit her in such a way that even though it was not terribly forceful, it hurt quite a lot, and involuntary tears pricked her eyes.

He was instantly awake and apologetic. "Darling, I'm so sorry," he said, reaching to pull her hands away. At the very least there was no blood involved.

"I know," she said, inhaling deeply through the offended appendage to quell the pain, which thankfully was receding quickly. "I know. It's all right. I was just trying to surprise you."

"Excellent job of that," he said with a smile, clearly having ascertained that a trip to hospital was not required. "Did you sleep well?"

"I think so," she said. "When did you bring me up here?"

"Just after seven. Figured we could use a little more sleep."

At that moment she was overtaken by an inconvenient yawn. "Sorry. Think you were right." Remembering Hugh's joke about thanking him properly, she looked up to him from her place on the pillow, then lunged up to kiss him. He was appropriately responsive. "Good morning," she said throatily when she broke away.

He began to chuckle, which was not exactly the reaction she expected. "You did promise to properly thank me, come to think of it, and I know how you like to keep your word." He brushed her hair back at the temple. "Remember, though: Hugh's leaving to go home to Stratford today, and Nick'll be going back to New York."

She deflated at once. "I've gotten rather used to the two of them being around."

"Stratford isn't that far away, really."

"New York is, though."

He bent to kiss her injured nose. "You'll want to speak to Nick, by the way."

"Oh." Dread filled her at the thought of the stern lecture that awaited her.

Another kiss, this time on this lips.

"He's going to yell at me, isn't he?" she asked.

Despite his reminder, he gave her yet another kiss, proper and deep; his hand moved over her hip. "Why do you care right now?" he queried.

The man had a point.

………

"It lives!"

Hugh grinned as he saw Mark, clearly freshly showered and dressed, come into the kitchen. Mark grinned in return as he made a bee-line for the French press.

"I had managed to forget that I am no longer eighteen years old and able to sleep on a sofa without paying dearly for it the next day," Mark said, rubbing his neck with his left hand as he pulled two coffee mugs down from the cupboard.

"Where is your lovely missus?" he asked.

"She's on her way." He poured the coffee, then reached for the milk to adulterate one of them.

"Before she gets down here: thank you again for trusting me, and for not telling her. I'm sorry—"

"Hugh." At least Mark was still smiling. "It's already forgotten… but you're welcome."

"And by the way…." Hugh leaned forward. Quietly he related to Mark the idea he'd had and shared with Nick's uncle. Mark listened, then smiled approvingly in response.

"I like it."

"I thought you might."

A female voice spoke. "Like what?"

Hugh turned to see Bridget. Not missing a beat, he said, "I was just telling Mark the real reason I'm leaving the DVD set here is so that I can come again soon and watch the other series with the both of you."

She smiled broadly. "I like it too then. I'll miss you being around."

Hugh scoffed playfully. "Don't lie. You're newlyweds. You're looking forward to being rid of the both of us."

She giggled, even blushed a little bit ( _hence the delay in your appearance downstairs, say-no-more_ , Hugh thought with some amusement), but then a look of apprehension washed over her. "Where's Uncle Nick?" she asked.

Hugh looked to Mark. "He stepped out." Mark held out the coffee he'd fixed for her, and she went towards it with both arms outstretched. Hugh mouthed silently to the back of her head, "Shopping."

Mark nodded ever so slightly.

"Ah," she said.

"Looks like a lovely day outside," Mark said, turning his gaze to the array of windows overlooking the lawn.

"It does," said Bridget pensively as she too looked outside, cradling her coffee with both hands, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Hugh watched as Mark slipped his arm about her shoulders and she leaned into him with what was clearly no conscious effort on her part.

Someday he vowed he would be as happy as the two of them were. Mark's gaze wandered back indoors and when he met Hugh's own gaze, Hugh could only continue grinning. _I hope you realise how lucky you are_ , Hugh thought, and as if hearing his thoughts, Mark nodded curtly, a smile playing upon his own lips.

Footfalls on the upper floor, then coming down the kitchen stairs, pulled them all out of their reverie. "Bridget?" called Nick's voice. "Are you down there?"

"We're all down here," said Mark. Bridget suddenly looked like a frightened rabbit on a firing range.

"Oh good." Nick appeared, an unpleasant cloud of crankiness following him in. He bore two carrier bags that Hugh swept out of his hands and settled onto the counter. Nick then turned to his niece-in-law with a rather fierce expression. "Now Bridget. About yesterday."

………

Not even Bridget's own father had a talent for making her feel five years of age again. She swallowed hard and hoped it didn't sound as ridiculously cartoonish as it felt and sounded to her own ears.

"Yes?" she squeaked.

"That was an _extremely_ foolhardy thing you did."

As if her embarrassment could possibly get worse, he was not only going to curse her out but he was going to do it in front of both Mark and Hugh. She hoped to cut him off with an apology before he could build up a good head of steam, but he held up his hand to abort her effort.

"Let me finish," he said gruffly, coming even closer to her. "It's something out a French farce, it was, calling me to come out and rescue you from a broken down vehicle you don't even _have_. And then calling out your boss with the same pretense in some misguided attempt to play matchmaker…. Ridiculous. I can't believe you even thought to try such a thing."

She willed herself not to tear up.

But she felt his hand on her arm with an oddly gentle pressure, and she was compelled to look up into his piercing blue eyes. "I must say, though," he continued, his voice much softer, "I am glad that you did."

Surely her ears had been deceiving her. "What?"

He pursed his lips. "Don't make me say 'thank you', Bridget."

"Are you kidding me?" she cried, reaching up and throwing her arms about his neck for a tight embrace.

She could feel his silent laughter against her. "I'm afraid to continue," Nick said. "She might inadvertently strangle me."

"Continue?" She leaned back to look at him again.

He attempted to regain his composure. "I'm accepting the Cambridge offer."

She was speechless.

"Please," intervened Hugh. "For the love of God, don't squeal."

"Shut up—I'll squeal if I like!" She tightened her embrace again. "Tell me. Is it because of my boss?"

Diplomatically he explained, "It's because of you and Mark, of course, but I certainly won't turn down future engagements with Jen."

Bridget never thought such a common name could sound so precious.

"This is the best news possible," said Bridget, then she turned her eyes to Hugh. "Barring, of course, Hugh announcing he's moving to London."

"Sadly, I have no such announcement to make."

"But we do have another surprise for you, my dear child."

She turned back to look at Nick. "A surprise for me?"

The three men nodded.

"Hugh, get the bags. Mark, grab a couple of tablecloths."

"Right."

"I'm sure we'll all fit in my car."

"Where are we going?" Bridget asked, puzzled.

………

It was indeed a beautiful day, not a trace of the previous day's clouds on the horizon. Mark was glad to be spending it outside with three of his favourite people in the world, though one of them was undeniably his absolute favourite. He glanced down to where Bridget's head rested against his chest, her blonde hair dappled by sunlight coming through the trees. She chose that moment to look up to him with the prettiest, most relaxed smile he'd seen on her face since just after the exchange of vows at their wedding three weeks ago. To his left sat his uncle; to his right, his best mate from his long-ago university days. Both of them were reclining on their elbows, happily sated after their picnic meal on Primrose Hill, looking to the vista around them as if they couldn't believe they'd discovered such idyllic beauty still existed.

As the sun touched upon a blue in her eyes that rivaled the very sky around them, he realised he could hardly believe it himself… but there she was, and the best part was that he could count on her being there every day for the rest of his life.

………

"How long until you're back?"

There was a long pause as he considered his words. "I have a lot to deal with before coming back. I have something like fifteen, twenty years of history there, you know."

"Oh, I know," she said nonchalantly. "I just want fair warning, so I know when to start turning off my answerphone, 'cause I sure won't want to talk to you or anything." He glanced up just in time to see the smirk disappear from her face, replaced by an overly serious expression as she raised her tumbler of scotch in a little mock toast before knocking it back.

She was a woman after his own heart, and that was dangerous. He cleared his throat. "Month if you're lucky. But I'd start turning it off in three weeks just to be safe."

"Mmm. Thanks. Appreciate the heads up."

"Anytime."

He found himself looking a little too long into her eyes, forced himself to look away. "I should go. Flight's pretty early in the morning."

"Right." She leaned back on her sofa, smiling like she had some kind of secret he wanted to know; he swore he was twenty-five again, because he did. "Don't call me or anything when you get to New York."

"Believe me, I will."

"Damn."

He rose from the chair; she rose to walk him to the door. "Have a good flight."

"Unfortunately, that's not exactly up to me."

"You know what I mean." There was that playful grin again.

He hadn't kissed her once since their meeting. He hadn't dared. Kissing her meant some kind of commitment, and right now that was the last thing he wanted. As he stood there considering his parting words to her, however, the decision was taken out of his hands though as she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. It made him feel like he had been startled from a dream, and was only now awake for the first time in a long time.

"You know, I have an idea." He felt her hand on the shoulder of his jacket. "I could drive you in the morning."

He was beginning to think that perhaps feminism wasn't the horrible notion he'd always held it to be.

………

Monday

_THE PERFECT MATCH_

_By Ms B_

_A couple of years ago, I met—or rather, was forced to meet—a man that my mother wanted to set me up with. He was dressed absurdly badly, treated me rudely, made unkind comments about me, and was an all around surly, haughty arse._

_A few weeks ago? I married that man._

_There's a point here I'm trying to make: each one of us, when we're single (or at the very least, unattached), seem to labour under the delusion that there's a perfect match that we'll know on sight. I do believe there's a perfect match for everyone, but whether we'll know them on sight is another story altogether. In fact, your perfect match may be the last person you ever considered._

Mark dropped the paper to see Bridget gazing at him expectantly. "So what do you think?" she asked.

"Well, I haven't quite finished yet," said Mark with a purposefully unreadable expression and tone. "But I do have to wonder about your facts."

"What do you mean?"

It felt a little strange to be sitting all alone with her in their kitchen after a week of feeling like their home was on par with King's Cross Station. "Well. I wouldn't consider the reindeer jumper that absurdly bad."

Tension now broken, she laughed.

"In fact," he continued, "I still have it."

"Why on earth…? Why would you keep it?"

He looked into her eyes. "Because I'll never forget the expression on your face when you looked at it, and looked back up at me. I have rarely felt so humbled, especially by a woman wearing a carpet." She chuckled again. He reached to gently take her hand, squeezing gently. "Now hush so I can finish reading, Ms B."

_The end._


End file.
